the washing bit

You will be old, succumbing at last
     to the things you’ve done to that body
and I,
     old too, but now the stronger one,
will push your wheelchair around the neighbourhood
     we found
     or made

     All these women who halo you,
     all these women
          with bed-curtain hair,
          candlestick laughter and art-print kisses—
     they would follow you anywhere

     but I follow no-one
     and do not wish
     to be followed

We’ll walk side by side,
our circles
intersecting. Friends

will often come to our house
     with its old furniture,
     home-made art
     and books

but when the night reaches
a certain depth,
I’ll quietly tell them,
‘We’re tired now’

I’ll help you undress, smelling your familiar sourness,
and wash your sagging nakedness line by line—
     the seamed back of your neck,
     the crooks of your elbows,
     the skeletal fingers whose nails I cut and file
          every other Saturday

When your skin’s clean and your medication taken
     (the water-tumbler trembling
     between your hands),
I’ll help you get into bed

Then I’ll peel off my layers,
clean my own skin as best I can

and sneak under the blankets
to wrap you in myself
and myself in you
as we always
have, as we always
will.