At night, every noise could be her.
I know she’s here now, right now, even though
she won’t show herself to me.
(I tried to find her the other night,
down by the front door like before,
but nothing came to greet me this time.)
And I just can’t shake the feeling…
…that there’s a guest in the house,
and I am being a terrible hostess.
Because now I hide from her,
buried beneath my blankets every night,
not even letting a scrap of skin show
above my covers.
Like I’m a child armouring myself
against a visiting witch.
I sweat. Wake stinking.
Sometimes, as I’m about to finally drift off,
I swear I can hear a voice hissing from the hallway…
“And this is the woman raising my daughter…
Emily Carroll interview on QCX