something from the fridge

at the witching hour I break through the back door of the last house I called home. creep into the kitchen to steal something from the fridge. my shelf overflows with exotic food I could never buy or justify and I remember I don't live here anymore. a crow cries from the neighbour's roof. I take something from the highest shelf (I can't remember what) and close the door too loud. another opens down the hall just beyond the room I used to pay for. footsteps and my grip on the snack I've stolen and the handle outside won't loosen. I am caught in the act of trespass and robbery from the house I used to live in by a stranger I shared walls with. she yawns at the sight of me, as though I'd been marked in her calendar and broke in later than expected. there's a hug and questions about where I've been and what I need from the house. the hospitality makes as much sense as her response to burglary. escape into the cold, words choked by my embarrassment. I run in bare feet down the pavement through the yard. familiar cat fences fold onto a path sliding down into the garden where my parents raised me, now filled and flowing with water like an ocean. I dive to touch the lawn where they buried the cat and swim round the lemon tree. an assortment of acquaintances call out from the balcony as the water rises. I think I'll reach them and the shed will be a submarine soon but the Russian doll sings and I wake to the cold and more news of bombs dropped on children again.