His Water Walz is a black and white photograph 

being coloured in by my mother. The one 

her father drove to take in the next village 

in their family car, back in the 70’s. 

                                He’s drawn to the city, what can I say. 

He moves like the fumes 

of arrival — loneliness has come 

to him & he is dancing in its headlights 

as if to say, come closer, I dare you. 

                                His place by the window is always empty. 

I am sure there is no boat, but if I’m wrong, 

there is a nail & a hammer & hip bone. 

There is skin & lacquer & woodworm, 

bird & beak. That way, he is self 

sufficient, autonomous & ash. 

He slurs the surface with his fingers, 

just above the fishbodies & frogspawn. 

What he takes, he gives 

back double — cries,

lets the water fall back 

into itself, round & rippled. 

Then, he presses his hands into it 

like into the small of a back, until 

skin floods over itself. 

What kind of longing does my presence create in him, that he looks for more 

of my substance elsewhere? 

                                I am still lonely. 

It will be evening before he comes home. Should I

                                make soup, will you come hungry 

from dancing? What nibbled toe 

will I have to mend?