By | 1 November 2015

She recognises me and mocks my work
with her own lithe labour, arms like kisses on the
glass. Smooth as oil
she copies my mop and wringer, slipping her body through
a narrow ring of rubber,
eight handshakes but no hands and yet slim fingers slipping,
sloping elaborately –
she’s a bag of brimming slosh and muscle, swimming.
Love was never like this. She
waits each day, we work, we talk, our conversation
is stately, balletic,
hung with dangling cephalopodic undulations.
If alarmed
she writes her name in water. Food-grifter, shape-shifter,
she paces my walking
powered in the stroll by her three hearts.
My mopping done,
I pass on, she observes me to the aisle-end. Left alone,
she’ll adjust her mantle
like a nun, then settle in a corner on a vigil,
a huddle of knots, in wait.

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