I once thought we had fought to become entitled to love & divorce; leave the parade, go home mindless. I was near senseless, forgetting what we’d inherited. See, I was lonely as a young one, desperate to grow into the men who wouldn’t give me a second glance. That was not the same as grief. Lonely when I first went out into the night, near-naked, half-asleep with blitheness, possessing luxury: I was unafraid, didn’t know a thing back then, too young to be a flower blooming to spite a scythe: I survived. A nation forgot. I almost did too. One morning I found rosemary growing where it oughtn’t (cut down as weed, unthinking). Later I began to find broken eggshells in dustbins. Slimy chicks. Cold. A plague of locusts dogged my bathroom with grim persistence, the kitchen sink filled with blood, baptised walls red, there was nothing white left. I lost my finger-prints one by one (means of identification). Quitting to return with answers, I visited an occult store. The palmist could tell me nothing without lines for prompting her interpretation, history of me. She asked I leave, smelling something unpleasant about me. Rotten fruit cast out by grocer boys into unlit alleyways as I returned home restless, greeted by my queer house’s heady stink. The postman had stopped delivering letters, people had stopped writing them. My dog messed the floor, gave out sudden yelps of pain as if struck. Rosemary sprouted about the windows reclaiming my house (Law observed the letter, Memory compulsive an order as Forgetting), a photo covered with black solemnity, lace observed as rosemary shrouded, day by day (perhaps it was night), plucking out the visible, holing me in near darkness to impress on me the weight of a body afforded light, gadding around & calling itself lonely. Today I am not; in the absence of a sexed body to mourn. There are plenty alive issuing summons.