Remember that morning
when you blew raspberries on my chest?
You were searching
for Krishna’s fingerprints in the bathtub,
then under the pillow and the curtains––
I think you found them in your slippers.
It takes all sorts to make a world.
He and I built our home together last September.
We used skeleton leaves, white sheets, cigarettes,
hot bodies, tears.
I kept half and he kept half
and we put our home in our pockets.
But tell me, how can you build one home
when you live in two houses?
I’d try to wish to eleven-eleven,
to birthday candles, to falling stars, to God.
But you’re so far away, in that distant,
sea-side city, and not even God will bend
the laws of physics for you, my darling
my land of Nod,
my bandy words,
my black lamb,
my cat’s pyjamas.
We’ve been daydreaming between
the devil and the deep blue sea––
sleeping in the lap of the gods,
in hot pots,
in the doldrums.
Since my baby said goodbye,
when the stars were low
and the winds were high.
I dream of him, my baby,
and I cry and cry.
Our home is a bit rusted now,
but it’s still got a little glow––only
I’m trying to decide whether the light’s
coming from the inside or whether
I’m seeing things.