I heard you talk in your sleep


fell into morning. a golden psalm
etched on the breakfast tray, milk
in a tin can. pull ring
in your eyes
as you wake too quickly
see me bare backed, hunching head
in the stretched arm hole of a t-shirt

how, when the weather changed
did I move from where
your long body lay
across a lacquered floor
to where the toothpaste tube
sat, curled beside a reading lamp

those goose skin legs, kicking quilts
you bound impala swift to shower

what, when the sunlight shifts
will I become to you. to myself
to my sisters, the dentist, the cat
to the woman who sold us
cigarette filters

before we learnt to coil card scraps
before we learnt to touch
before we learnt to wake an hour
ahead of the alarm clock
and stretch to click
the oil heater on