He came in from the hot noon-glare,

brought shadow in with him under his cloak

as if he carried night there, as if night clung to him

 

like a scared child. I remember he closed his eyes

and his face was a map of tiredness picked out

in pitiless light – so much exposed

 

that would afterwards be hidden.

Too tired to draw himself in, his feet in their sandals

fell outwards, collapsed on their sides, exhausted mules.

 

So I knelt, lifted each one and placed them gently

on my thighs. He didn’t move. I took one in my hands.

Long, curiously light, a dropped bird, pulse still beating.

 

I kneaded it, pushing my thumbs into its brown felt,

feeling for invisible wings. Then the other one,

the spirit in each trembling, parched river-beds

 

veined in stone-dust, cracked mud: I lowered each one

into water. How these fish shone, wet again, drinking it in –

my hair hung close to my face like a waterfall

 

and I cried, wrapping each fish in red-gold strands of sun –

a gift, my gift – could feel each bone, each curve swaddled,

sleeping like babies in rushes. Then I opened them,

 

dipped my fingers in oil and, over and over,

pushed olive’s unction into his hide, feeling it seep,

oil coursing his blood, bringing the tree into him,

 

rooting him through my fingers. It was a speaking;

we never spoke like this again. But I have only to close my eyes

to bring the damp warmth of his soles

 

close to my cheek, the dry brush of my lips on his heels.

He stood, and my mouth was underneath him

with one word in it. The ground heard.