Overall it isn't the eye-clutching
the tut-tutting of a not stopping throat
I fear most;
that close, hungry keening
so climactic for my mother and father.
That knack they have
of pushing the pendulum away
and not expecting the backswing.
My owned dread is the rapid
suspicion coming down like evening
that you have collected
like raindrops on a scarf, so tiny
I may not see you, I may
shake you out, not feeling
the slow focused point
of memory in my skull's hull.
You might go like a tea-rinse
brushed from threads of
wide-arcing hair, flicked carelessly
your loved body released
and me, so unaware
thinking your patter still inside me.
inside and safe.