Pronounced Ah-Teh
The uneasy silence of ceasefire
and an unseasonal rain of domino spots
swabs the alley’s brick tessellations.
You’re walking with purpose
for lemons – clean out today –
in the shop, four pitted specimens,
no boat docked, so, yesterday’s
and MJ mugs and says, ‘Where Ate?’
while you’re offering to pay.
In bed. Lately, sleep’s hard to grab -
alarms, national alerts, distant booms
that infiltrate bedrooms –
but MJ pouts and rolls her eyes,
‘Bring milk, put egg, put bread,
wake Ate and say, table is ready.’
You nod. It seems reasonable advice,
smile thanks and leave, dodging raindrops.
That evening, Ate puts the grip
on you, over pizza and a bit to drink,
‘If you let me sleep, I’ll bring the stick,’
she promises with a languid wink.
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