Now I wash my Underwear by Hand
When you first came to
my home I still called you by half your name.
Your father’s half.
You were as lovely as graphite on paper or
the bend of a heron, or of
an egret.
And, egret, this home has so many new places.
Now
and then
they throw up your hair, which is still
here. Sacred and profane,
I am turned to a high priest, all
ritual and ceremony.
And look! You have turned me, hands still
warm amongst soapy dishes, to
the thievery of poetry.
I am giving you back. I give you back.
You will find me, the way the bus
finds me waiting.
Morning Run in a Pandemic
I was born dying.
The umbilical chord wrapped twice
about my neck.
My face the colour of a plum.
On a morning run in the pandemic
my lungs heave again, like
those first, desperate minutes.
A tall and a short friend turn the corner.
Here, a single file family, there
a family abreast.
Strange they interest me more
now they are masked. As if
I knew all of their stories before this.