You can use my cryptic limbs,
yours mute from surgery:
I will hold what you can’t
carry. My desk waits, an empty
page, still I find screws
and a drill, spices and syrup.
On your good leg
and crutches you’re fluid
and smooth, secure a ladder
to a wall, want to fix us
comfort food. Twice I search
for the “dish” that’s really
a tray (here, take my eyes).
Words you don’t say
(they’d keep me from
my desk and pen) I slip
into your mouth: Puree
the apples? Smoke
the chicken?
I slide And the ribs?
between your lips.
You leave to rest and I
stay, moving like you
over charcoal, sweet steam.
Your fluent grace –
its folds and bends –
has found my body,
like a vow.
