| God Bless This House The woman
cradles a bundle
of cross stitches. The man
is embroidered next to her
on the tapestry. They are elevated,
in your parents' house,
above the mantelpiece
where a photo harks back
to before we met. It's your ex
holding your baby, in a polished frame.
Your mother hands me a cup of strained tea.
Over your dad's shoulder a clock tut-tuts.
Looking Back
If I could
I'd go back
and slide my tongue
out your mouth.
I'd pick up a tissue
and mop my damp praise
from your neck and your chest.
I'd take my pound of flesh
back. If there was a mastertape
of our night
I'd get my hands on a copy
and set it to rewind,
so I could watch our bodies
unmaking love,
remaking the bed.
I'd leave nothing to chance.
I'd backtrack us all the way
out the bedroom
and into the lounge,
and I wouldn't pause there
to pick up my coffee.
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