Talking to Strangers

The postman’s already come round,
the neighbors have gone to the shops, and yet
you haven’t thought to put
the kettle on. Children are shrieking
in the park glimpsed through the window,
the bright grass, the glare. Draw
the curtains, draw a bath, untangle
yesterday’s clothes. We barely slept,
only trying at last, clasped one
against the other, your body
sweating into mine. Already you’re
planning errands, a proper nap. I decline
the cup of tea. What’s there to say
once it’s done? Before, coming in
from the streetlights, I was so clever.
I could say nothing about anything
and make you laugh when our pants
came off, when getting inside
was everything. Holding our breath
like those deep-sea divers who go all the way
down without tanks or gear, we plunged
through the depths till we couldn’t bear
the pressure, our lungs pulling us back
to the surface. Now the sun’s so high, so
hot. Now my throat catches, dry. Now you’re
hiding, turned away, unfolding yourself
into a shirt. Now the mail is on the floor.