She always puts it away when she comes—
my little piece of dark peace.
Pumice, I suppose, or perhaps they painted him that way.
He is a suggestion, this statue of mine,
the mere size of my arthritic thumb.
A figure behind a greyed shroud
pushing out.
These thin hillocks; crossed-arms,
these bony bumps; eyes and nose,
these protrusions—
ears?
She has chipped one.
I am convinced it was a deliberate carelessness—
whilst she cleared away his matte black body
that sucks the light,
his look of shadow and quiet night.
His cold empty sleep that is my delight.
She knows in her deepest heart what he is
what he wants.
So in the sticking drawer he’s sent,
next to the lifeless bulb and over-stretched paper clips.
Those shouldn’t-need things
offences to bright life.
I always take him out again when she goes—
to gaze at my little piece of dark peace.