It’s in your mouth corners—

two lips clamped tight

and gently curved to hide it.
It’s in the way you hold your hands

not quite together,

fumbling with an uncertain future

as it clings

to your third finger.
It’s in your glance—

the search for answers

you will not get, perhaps,

until it is too late to go

back.
It’s in the trees

beyond the glass, who

seem to know more, though

they turn their heads

in spite of you.
It’s in his leaning body and

the chair that supports it;

both of you stand –

it’s quite impossible to sit.
It’s the silent conviction

in her hands, rested

half open in her lap.
It’s in the careful crease

of the curtains,

who shake hands with the sun

behind your back:

they make their bets.
It’s in the blue of your dress

that places you, unwillingly,

at the centre of

an unconscious universe.
The only anxiety I know

tingles my teeth

and squats to tie

its laces on my chest. I don’t

know how you feel, though somehow I think

I do.


Notes:

Based upon the painting, Interior with Figures, by Chester Earles, 1872