There’s a Natascha-shaped hole in my room.
Five foot seven inches tall,
Thirty-four inches in circumference (round the hips)
Shoe size five and a 32B cup.
An exact replica of the original.
It stands in the centre of the room;
Without sound, scent or spirit.
A vacuum of vital statistics,
Where shadows and footsteps
fail to fall.

Now nothing else will fit there;
no coffee table
no foot stool
no other woman, either

So the hungry wet hiss of the fridge
The gas hob lisping under a pan of thinning water
The walls saturating with the shuffling
Of my neighbour (he wears his dead wife’s slippers).
The bush outside heaving her bosom
To rub against the window

All the minor sounds expand
To their loving lengths
But fail to fill the subtraction of space
reserved for my Natascha.