Today brings us back a set of slating skies
grappling for my sight amidst the taste of last year
at moments like this my mind makes me answer
a realisation: that you were pushed and didn’t slip –
we see the air keeps heading south and soon
another pair will find it too. I first notice blood on your tongue.
We’ve grown in split houses
and accustomed ourselves to corsetry that
teaches you and I how to run fingertips over
ribcages and lacings: how to grip a spoon so
some awful table-guest never realises
why we clasp our faces hidden: again, I see.