Nighthawks

Nighthawks (do tell: What was dying twice like?) 

These days I 

ache on the wane, I feel

a tall child crying,

setting with sun, crying. 

I’m afraid there is not-else I can 

write about for you’ve left 

a bed in your shape 

behind in place of warmth and Now

my hands must be pressed

up against me,

one underneath my thigh,

the other my chest   I’m still alive — 

 as I watch the night.

Do you remember how mother’s 

forehead would forever be kneaded with 

fine fragments as she dreamt? 

She never felt, mother

never felt it,

enough. 

But she was so big and real

enough that 

I would slip my little hands to her,

palms painful rough as 

they travelled across us, 

resting flush against her belly. But

these new hands, weaker, travel

against old sweater cotton, taking with my sheets, 

to hold me before the scream, 

because I wouldn’t want to scream - whose name would I scream? — 

and yet my throat swells.

In the other corner, 

you begin, your

mouth loose open and 

your happy laps 

still damp against my socks.