He does not make words for me.
He makes me a mirror,
frames it in jarrah.
He makes a coat-rack
for my long black coat
and the children’s raincoats.
When I ask him to,
he installs tracks and poles
for my curtains, moves furniture
to where I want it,
devising solutions
to the problems engendered
by these eccentric walls.
On a mandolin,
with its pairs of strings
too taut for bending blue,
he plays music that shows me only
itself.
He asks me nothing
but the open question of skin.
He makes tea and toast every morning.
He does not make words for me.
(First published in Cottonmouth)