Mail Order

After landing,
you walk down the aisle
with aching heels.
Your hands have palpated
the man who lurks
by the terminal.
Lip curled, he waits
belly-deep in sheets
your fists will memorise
with each spasmodic clutch,
your palms will learn
under gushing taps
where detergent corrodes
a new fortune.
You long for a dress
you may greet him in.

I Do Think

I do think of your lack of sleep,
your bedroom walls replaced
by pillars of peeling trees;
an aftermath of dead leaves, damp soil
imprinting the coarse uniform
you gradually learned to iron.

Less often, the afternoon
you knelt before me
half-dazed, while I held you
the same way you've cradled
a revolver, haltingly unwilling
and unready to fire.
How we no longer speak,
your heavy boots trampling
the miles of undergrowth between us.