Her tears destroy me,
faster than the sea
tearing at the shore.

I crumble to her words,
but she cannot see it,
she imagines me immune,
a granite monolith
hard and cold,
a man without feeling
because I cannot show it,

because I know
that if windows and walls
and chairs and bones
are to remain intact,

I must turn to stone.

BENEATH THE SKIN

Here in the bone chambers
hidden beneath muscle and skin
sits time and memory
stored without choosing,
light and darkness without judgement,
the flashes of a life
lived through gums, teeth and hair,
the mysterious account
of the man I created
in the hum-drum daily offering,
the unnamed and unremarkable days
where eternity was breaking,
and where the flesh of living
laboured in the hope
of finding hope.

HOUSE OF SOUNDS

From other rooms
I am learning the sounds
of my children's laughter.

I have learned the cackle of mischief
when things should be investigated,
and the unselfconscious belly laugh
when the whole world is theirs.
The forced sound of wishing for fun
that is one child egging on the other,
and the mad laughter that always turns to tears.

And today I heard you crying,
another sound I have forgotten how to make,

another sound in a house of sounds,
where manhood has prescribed silence,
and I am learning to listen.