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?