365 Poems/60 Holiday


We eat spiced carrot and parsnip soup

out of deep bowls. Our clothes will smell

of root vegetables and stock for days,

but by then, our conversation will have only

just started to cool.


You have noticed the attention I have paid

to my eyebrows and teeth, and ask

if I am available for photographs in the kitchen,

while we wait for the kettle to boil.


You tell me to bite into a mango,

let the juices soak my chin, neck,

breasts, while you click and flash

and kindly order me to look at you.


If we put a needle into this experience,

it would turn green with envy.


We eat bread like we did as children,

eating the middle and leaving the four

outer edges still attached to each other.


The weather has been bad outside,

because we’ve let the sun hide with us.

It follows us up and down the stairs

to the front door to look at the post,

then back to the kitchen again.


I expect the unexpected from you,

and for a full hour this morning,

we both studied muscular honeycomb

suspended in a glowing, bulb round jar.


When this week is up, we will have to re-learn

how to be with others at regular times of the day

and neither of us is willing.


You feed me candied crab apples. I put almonds

and glace cherries on your outstretched tongue,

in the shape of a diamond.


We both said other people can be annoying,

and closed our window to the smaller

world outside.


You won’t know it, not now, maybe never,

but you have probably saved my life.

I have never planned my dreams,

but if I had, they would be like this.


We eat ice creams out of glasses, and

celebrate watching the stars through the skylight,

dipping our bodies low to the floor

and quickly coming back up again.


Like immaculate lunatics, we shout

each other’s names, six, seven, eight

times a day.


The only time we are truly quiet is when

we wake first thing, like it is mid-winter,

and we are meant to be sleeping.