I don't write many sonnets, but here's one.
My fourth wife flagged her exit visibly
the way an aeroplane prints out its tyres
of jetstream through the sky: a litany
of bootprints in the snow, of empty drawers
and burnt-out cigarettes. The stain I spread
around the bath had gone. She sliced my face
from every wedding photograph, force-fed
the dog my shoes, and burned my masterpiece.
I grasp for evidence that she was here.
The three who came before her made their mark –
the mirror’s jagged crack, the Labrador
nailed to the floorboards, laughter in the dark.
The fourth’s a ghost. Now even tracks I make
fade with her and seven years of smoke.