on morning hugs

Steam from the pears tossed newly in to poach

woke you by degrees, your mouth before your eyes

you were pale and hadn’t shaved in a long time

the hair on your head was falling out too slowly

something, perhaps a breeze, had unseated your courage

you hadn’t cut your toenails in a long time.

That was when he sauntered up and hugged you

from behind, although his hands didn’t seem in it

almost tetchy on your figure in fine cotton

pyjamas, finger placement oddly imprecise –

not a tactile impulsion, not really much of anything

but sometimes love was a duty and that was alright –

Leaves had scuttled in through the open side door

the one inlaid with leadlight kookaburras –

dead, they broke underfoot as though deep-fried –

the radio news broadcast streaming on your Macbook

warned of Melbourne’s subway caving in – last night’s

pumpkin peelings mingled like ice with the leaves –

As a modern building sways with a storm, you swayed

with that colour of a single embrace that never ended –

the everyday show of friendly affection that featured you

now in the kitchen, now in the bedroom, now outside –

your head might have fallen in to the poaching liquid

when you realised the sense of duty wasn’t his at all

But that for you to receive the love of someone you loved, even

petty love, was like crawling through a crucible filled with lions

standing upright, lions with red lips and human spines

tails like braided rope to climb upwards on –  suddenly

your whole being seemed riven by a strange hatred

and his hands and his morning breath seemed almost holy.