Not knowing a cloverleaf

from a half-hitch,

I sentimentalise ropes

and knots. Lariats

with their cunning

slipknot, the bound strands

of bowlines so furred

and stiff with salt they’ll never part;

even the drop of the hangman’s noose,

the knot pressed to the neck just so.
In the back of the removals van

I’d tie a dozen knots, granny smiths

and bows, when one would do,

but still my ropes went slack

and the load would shift

no matter how hard I pulled.

Later, I’d curl them round my elbow

and drape them from the rails

in anticipation of tomorrow.
All this connection and control,

the words unfurling with the anchor,

the twitch of the tug-o-war,

daisies coiled around a wrist,

or the twist of hemp before beheading,

the knots that tighten in your throat

and stomach, the love that won’t let go,

the tangle on the bedroom floor

that only a clasp knife can undo