The Poetry Society

I cannot tear myself

from the skim of sunlight

on the wall, slow-

 

dawning and provisional

as her shuffle to the stove

in a dressing-gown, her face

 

still smudged with sleep. Only

watch out of the first warmth

as she heats water in a pan

 

and strains it through coffee

in a cotton sock. Only wait

for the head to lift from the cup,

 

for the eyes to look out of

their aftermath, disbelieving

and resolute. A line wakes

 

in her then. It squares

the shoulders against gravity

and curves into the small

 

of the back: just the stance

she has at the mirror,

stretching up to the wand

 

of mascara, her spine

hollowed into

the branching crease

 

of a birch; just the stance

she has at the easel,

waist wrapped in a towel

 

and shoulders working

like a boxer drubbing

at the overhead ball;

 

and just the stance she lost

as we edged along the stalls

in the market, her hair up

 

under a flat cap, her head

bent to the anxieties

of thrift; small, tensed body

 

I would shelter from the wind

with my body, and can only

watch for now, watch

 

from first light on the wall.