Whose voice is this
coming to me in the night
after a day
splattered with words,
shredded edges poured to overflowing,
lying in wait to cause pain,
trip up,
derail?
Emerging from sleep
into my breathing, unmoving body,
the memory of the shattering words
piled around, waiting . . .
who is this voice,
speaking so kindly?
I see you’re awake.
You’re okay.
You are loved.
What do you need?
No TV, too bright.
Would you like some tea?
We could go downstairs and make eggs.
Lindy Thompson 