Moving the Pond
A form we have no words for
You needed to move the pond
because we were about to reconstruct the house.
So you dug a new hole, further into the garden
and pondered how to move the lilies and fish
and would the frogs balk, come spring, at the disruption?
That was your main concern. And when I came out
with your tea, I was dismayed at the location
of the exhumed lozenge of soil – too long and narrow –
having envisaged something more oval,
at a softer angle, and said so.
And, your shoulders slumped from the labour,
you looked at me. Some hours later,
after labouring at work of my own, I went out
to check on your progress, and saw
that you’d filled the hole and started again.
I remember when you holed up in your cave
for ten long weeks, before you came back to me.
These days, stair passions, kitchen kisses, are rare.
You leave your boots in the hallway.
I open the windows, creating a draught.
Whose turn to go out in the rain
to the shed for the milk? But here is the binding.
You started over for me. A muted subterranean urge.
I put my tongue to your throat and taste
the salt of it.
© 2021 Afric McGlinchey