At sunrise the fire is lit
and the kettle hung from its hook to boil
The long lazy morning lies ahead
in which we are as new to each other
as an infant and her mirror twin
delighting in every gesture
and each shared smile
wanting nothing more than to know this other one
beyond the silvered surface
In this light we cannot yet see
how the fragile clockwork of desire
will be exposed
its mechanism bared and torqued
wound by experts
set to a schedule
clinical and clean
Nor how the morning heaves into heavy afternoon
warm light along a trail of bread and stones
on which we tread and cannot say
which most carefully carried?
stones or bread?
and at journey’s end which consumed?
Still, for now, the water boils
and the fire smoulders still beneath the steaming kettle
as warm as blood from a slit wrist
From where will the breath come?
In whose lungs made?
From whose lips blown?
