A pan of gold

I feed the rosary of a narrow tail
between finger and thumb, and we chat in bed:
sweat rivering off us in chills as we gulp
Diet Pepsi to replace what’s been lost; laugh
about the nuisance we’ll be to my neighbours.

​

You listen to motorbikes, whistling, outside;
a thin, slatted light on the wall behind you,
a look on your face no poem could improve.
We talk as if all this were already yours –
heads full of plans for a time when it will be.

​

Do I really love you, you ask me again,
looking for the one rock in a pan of gold,
for whatever has more currency than ‘yes’.
I kiss you, and lighting your eyes like votives,
put devotion in the space fear leaves behind.