Sometimes when you read aloud, a poem
or even a few lines from the paper, I hear
your voice the way I heard it one night
not long after we became lovers.
You had a fire in the stove
and my daughter was tucked
between us in the bed.
We lay on our backs, our hair
fanned out like flames. It was raining
hard, water rippling down
the uncurtained window, while you read
Bread and Jam for Francis. I listened
as the young badger longed for everything
she’d said she didn’t want, her friend’s bag lunch
with its lobster-salad sandwich, vanilla
custard and tiny vase of violets, until,
at the end, she gave in, admitting
all she desired. I absorbed the way
you pronounced each word, the timbre
of your vowels, the rise and fall
of questions and declarations.
It was such a private feeling. I held still
as a jar filled above the rim, to contain it.