From the Fort


Wrapped inside the smell of you, all your being,
the womb like warmth of clothes too large for me -
a child looking into the night
from the sleepy safety of a homemade fort,
I make believe.
I make myself believe that I'm inside out,
that I cradle all your being
and all my being
in the muffled dark of my womb.
He hears nothing but the echoes of air
shifting worlds away,
breathing itself in and sighing around us.
I make believe the colour of his cheeks -
their distant blush deep inside me
and the silence of his sleep -
an internal tide
pulling and stretching me into a reflective slumber,
until our heartbeats sound in chorus;
a cappella; question; answer;
the gentle chaos of a loving conversation.