by Deborah Steinmair
I’ve been bleeding for a week
deep in the night I watch you sleep
in the first shiver of winter
I walk the street with loose parts
my mind a memory card
head crowded as a cupboard
the pope has died and
wet leaves decompose in your garden
under the backside of Table Mountain
late at night I memorise you
like a prayer at the kitchen counter
with your cd collection scattered
like loose change on the carpet
at the tail end of April
with twigs, twine and twill
I renovate my heart for you
hoping, oh hoping it will do
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