When the mind-blowing agony
finally fades
to a bearable grumble,
and the exhaustion that follows
starts to loosen its grip,
I step back into my life.

A life that stops and starts
in fits and bursts
around those great black holes of pain.

But the dirt didn't stop nor start.
Last week's pans have a putrid festering crust.
Last week's milk bottles smell of rank sour milk.

I wash one plate, wipe half a shelf:
exhaustion's flood-tide crashes back,
sweeps me staggering up to bed.
The crust on the pans looms murkier.
The milk bottles stink a bit sharper.

Migraine is the colour of week-old food.
Migraine is the stink of old sour milk.

© 2006, Sally Aspden