He got up long after he was put to bed, in the hours when I lie
sewing and texting
and forgetting - but I knew it was him by the bare foot slap on
its weight and plasticity compared to the creature's.
He appeared at my bedside, saying
you have to find, where is my brothers?
I couldn't make any sense
until I saw that that his eyes though open were closed,
that his closed eyes were a wall in the labyrinth though he
alone; you have to kiss me, he said.
Like a man would say - and this morning he said it was funny
that his suit seemed so small he wondered how it fitted him
You have to kiss me
he said again more urgently, butting his head as if to suckle.
Didn't I dream
about a grown up child
that claimed to be him, a nightjar,
and about a girlwitch that dematerialised whenever I looked,
with the same other
consciousness he has now. Here but from another seam of his time
running without details or destination.
If you have any comments on this poem, Megan Watkins
would be pleased to hear from you.