You worked your way round my milk teeth,
sung umpteen times before you stuck.
Soon a chameleonic code,
you were my safeguard from a snatch,
then my duty when staying out,
and recently a thankful leap
from trade fairs and dogged insects.
My fingers refuse to leave you.
When you trace your wrinkles, criss-crossed
like the fine scars of unknown wounds,
and speculate how they got there;
when you’re sure you hid the stained scarf,
the note and the bent bronze bracelet
for some significant reason;
maybe you can’t remember what
you forgot, but you remember
you forgot, which is worse, far worse.
From: Inventing truth, HappenStance (2011)