A woman stands
at the kitchen window, stares blurrily

into your small world. You are content
to be clanging

music, smoking barbeques,
recycling bins brimming

with glass. They are private
school uniforms, dishes and bedtimes,

a steaming resentment
from the balcony. They can’t tell

you just talked to your mother, whose
speech was cluttered

and undecided. You broke in
and spoke for her, covering up

the glaring, the scared
deficiencies. Your mother couldn’t know

you’d just left
his place, his mouth

a ghastly tied up
red. That he’d stooped

to say that you were lovely, only
to state that this was it. That your hands

had hacked your speech, in the vain
hope of stopping

words. Perhaps he’d known
you’d bruised your skin, that you

looked for him in each
passing vehicle.

*

And later, tracing the spine
of the hills, you see the view

is all over again. As you watch
you nod obediently,

like when you’re expected
to understand. You’re only

so many people
deep. But how to wait,

and watch the water?