We have altered each other more thoroughly
Than moon or potions ever could. Tonight
The experiments in creating anger
Escaped control. Change is irreversible,
The time of mutual regard a distant
Unsettling race-memory. Don't run away:
Where would you go? There are no villages
Of superstitious well-meaning peasants,
Only suburbs purpose-built (not for humans)
And commuters who wouldn't want to get involved,
Their own relationships decaying
Like hidden corpses. Wait for me upstairs.
Even my footsteps will be different:
Build the suspense. Don't try to close your eyes
Until my face comes into the light.

Dave Whippman is in his fifties and a psychiatric nurse by trade. He's been writing (mostly for small press magazines) since the 1980s: mostly poetry, but also some fiction, as well as articles for nursing magazines. Dave has been married twice and has two children. Aside from writing, his hobbies are chess and painting.