I won’t be long, she said
and left the door ajar.
It was a special evening for us,
a rabbit stew was slowly cooking on the hob,
she’d chopped some onions, and garlic,
and carrots into little disks.
She didn’t take a coat
and didn’t put on any lipstick, I didn’t ask
where she was going.
She’s like that.
She’s never had any sense of time,
she’s always late; that’s all
she said that evening:
I won’t be long;
she didn’t even close the door.
Six years later
I meet her in the street (not ours)
and she suddenly seems worried
like someone who remembers
she forgot to unplug the iron,
Did you turn the cooker off, she asks.
Not yet, I answer,
these rabbits can be very tough.