The Sweetness

When he thinks I’ve drifted, he sings to me;

voice breaking in the hard bits – ocean on shore.

Sea glass carried in his pocket,

he runs his thumb over an unspoken memory.

I call him back from childhood,

elevating myself just to reach him.


Electra complex;

I can’t help but see my own father

in his strong upper lip.

Unshaven, unconditional.

He exists only in photographs,

now dust-covered, subterranean.


Nails bit down to the quick,

I get anxious about the way he drinks (and drinks)

and drives himself into

the light glowing crimson.

On a collision path, shamelessly green,

I wonder how he doesn’t have a favourite colour…


Synchronicity, more familiar than amorous.

It’s not in his nature to be so gentle,

wordlessly counting my intangible peripheries.

A builder’s calloused hands,

he deftly creates yet another home

in my fleshy lopsided hips.


The way he laughs and says ‘sweet as,’

I thought I lost the taste for saccharine on my last love.

But he’s agave nectar, deliciously pure.

An essence milked, a boy home-grown,

I imagine he tastes like slow-cooked kumara;

sweet and smoky, borrowed from the earth.


This side of the hemisphere, we orbit.

Antipodes, indefinitely just-out-of-grasp.

Fourteen thousand kilometers,

twelve years, and eighteen hours.

I’m waiting for his sun to rise

so that mine can too.


“The universe is in flux,”

I tell him when he asks me.

An intimate whisper, intravenous.

Chest heaving, slow breathing.

I can hear him smile:

“You’re absolutely lovely.”