For this photo
you slide left hand
around left cheek
incline head
so that hand
appears to be preventing head
from floating off -
restrained, contained:
hand sculpts face
with things once felt
distant memories
childhood toothache.
Contrived thus, at dead centre of frame,
your wedding band sings below its knuckle
to show that you are buckled up tight
against others’ eyes.
But he who slid gold
onto your burning finger has dropped
and is buried now
under some slab of Wales
which may explain the delicate shade of grey
your eyes reflect.
What wild Welsh walks
were taken by you two
after sleepy morning sex?
His gentle genitals fit so snug.
You slipped like rain around each other’s necks;
fed one upon the other’s subtle breath;
raked nails on backs;
tattooed your bloody yearnings
into each other’s skins;
kept each other’s words
as earrings.
But against this solid, black ground -
your parked left elbow
pinning down
some imaginary table
out of frame -
you lean gamely forward,
and are snapped
never to truly breathe again.
