Why do you ask me what she did?
What does it matter to you
if her hair was blonde or her eyes were blue,
whether she was happy or good?

Why should you care what clothes she wore,
or if she kept tidy and clean,
ate up all the food on her plate,
fell asleep when the light went out?

What difference could it possibly make
that she was good at writing and sums,
shared all her toys with a smile, took turns
at the end of the skipping rope?

What makes you think it was something she did?
Don’t you know it was all about me?
I was the one. I decided.
She got on my wick. I saw the pillow

and now she’s only a name on a grave.
Who thinks of her now? You come here
to stir it all up, asking and asking …
as if I cared, as if it mattered to me.