It was the softness that caught her.

Consent they taught at school, t

brought down like a gate. You say no,

you say yes – little, pliant words, daisy

petals yielding to touch. It was how you

spoke it, they said. She tried shaping

a syllable that it might hold every

possible present, every ending. Yes

like ironed bunting, determined on

sunshine. No like a gunshot from a

steady hand. In Italian you said si,

your mouth smiling in spite of itself.

In French, your smile drooped: si

to disagree, si with a non in your heart.

There had been a baby once, Aunt Mary

said, so small they lined a drawer with

cotton wool for fear she might be lost.

Yes and no like drawers: you choose left,

you choose right. Yes and no like cotton

wool, pulled into wisps, into other shapes

entirely. Yes and no like your body blooming,

pillowy with open-ended syllables.