A curl of hosepipe, bending into the memory of her body asleep,

a moment’s forgetfulness on locking the door

that I might have to unlock it again, for her,

and other little recollections and heartaches,

touch me gently, touch me greatly.

‘Where’s Amber?’ one of us always used to ask.

‘Amber’s in the other room’, one of us would say.

When we saw her last, she lay on the ground,

her hardened frame bent harshly,

her jaw spotted strangely with blood, her eyes big and still.

Over the years, noticing she was missing,

one of us might look up and ask, ‘Where’s Amber?’

‘Amber’s in the other room’,

on a snug sofa, or under a table or chair,

in her comfy cave where she lay in her sweet safe dreams.

Now, when we look where she always used to be,

lying on her side, or tummy, casting us a glance,

there is nothing.

When we go to the other room, and another, and another,

there is nothing, except a stab at our hearts.

She’s never where we look,

wherever we go, she’s always in the other room.

So, don’t worry, Amber is in another room, don’t worry,

just never the one where we look,

she’s never where we are,

she’s always just outside our sight and touch,

just beyond our hands inching forward to ruffle her hair

and feel her reassuring warmth on our skin,

she’s somewhere else, in another room we can never reach.