"Are you sleeping sounder now?” The people ask me still.
They do not show affinity, nor phrase it with more grace.
I do not choose to answer back with words that sound as shrill.

I sketch an image of my brain, a picture where it runs downhill
to where she lies not breathing. They've no inkling that it's left a trace:
"Are you sleeping sounder now?” The people ask me still.

I must not shout them down, although I wish to strike and spill
my pain to overflow on them. I must have breathing space.
I do not choose to answer back with words that sound as shrill.

They try to cheer me with condolements, filled with their goodwill.
To shepherd me to safer thoughts. A far less shattered place.
"Are you sleeping sounder now?” The people ask me still.

Did my doctor mention Prozac? Or some psychotropic pill
to featherbed the loneliness? To wrap me up in lace?
I do not choose to answer back with words that sound as shrill.

They have not had to swim these depths, nor struggle up this hill
each day, and all they think of is to question to my face:
"Are you sleeping sounder now?” The people ask me still.
I do not choose to answer back with words that sound as shrill.

                                   23 November 2023