Dear Helen,
You had mentioned in your email
That you wanted to talk, to hush your voice to a whisper,
Stir the grains in your delicate coffee cup
And spill out your every gut, one by one,
before the day was hunted away by the sun.

It is strange that you mentioned talking, Helen,
Because although my voice is light as a feather
floating onto soft ground,
You do not appear to have heard a sound,
And there is nothing but the pound, pound, pound                                                                    of heart beating against lungs
At the unsung tale.

Dear Helen,
You bend your ear so delicately,
Your face sculpted into a parody of concern
And your green eyes twinkling with excitement,
As your claws curl around the coffee cup handle.

Oh, Helen,
I had thought you were a friend;
Now it dawns
That I am a means to an end.