Extreme Silentness

To relieve the men
from
conversation
the dark rustles.
Glove compartment
baby wipes
to shoot
the stranger
is the breeze passed from
sea and hill and wood
to the car to the beard.
It is difficult to feel the beard because
only murderers and the famous
have bodies.
Enemies hide their secrets in their bodies.
You keep in touch with yours by way of orgasm. Words
return
before sunrise
to clean up the mess.

While I dreamt of a painless birth
my wife prepared,
the baby prepared. The health services
punchline. The sound envelope
delivered the baby
into the tiny patter of the maternal voice.
Same warm folds of baby talk
cradled lucky bacteria
digest milk.
On hearing the first noises
I was
evacuated
into the room.
I wanted to flood
with infant.
I wanted to embarrass the world
with what it is like for an infant.
My secret is
I don’t know what the world is like for an infant.

Which is why we listen to music.
I adore
cells [who?] scream to protect
a face
of two felt triangles
and crayon lips. Reckless, pedantic love
sprouts from atmosphere
cut
everywhere with cells. The father
cried
into adulthood
by his child. The word ‘no’ arrives months before
the word ‘yes’. Later
she takes herself
to the naughty step,
the first pulpit.
The sermon
slips between
those who died in the floods
and those who survived
as though the line was writ in water.
My ink is borrowed milk.
Brutal luck.

On the drive home
I wanted to enforce
gentleness
without comparison. I wanted to make
a friend
without firing a shot.
Some minor words would be my own.
I want to stay here
over there
with you
gone. Inside me
the animals
don’t hurt.
Happy
chastened fathers
note the balls in the pit are imported from Denmark.
It is unclear how this work should be rewarded.
It is unclear which parts, if any, should be passed on.

In the evening’s quiet kitchen
the parents are full of questions,
after the day inventing answers.
Ludicrous, juicy, unknown thoughts
share the carer
and the one who cares back.
Your bodies float
heavily
on the day, braced
for affection.
I speak instead of my junction off the M1
cuts happiness
like a pair of scissors,
parts screwed together.
Hiccups, for example
I just know that today she is looking for peace.
The objective is to love the animals
back into the trees.

And just when it seems
today will be as sweet and as compromised as the past,
the infant
storms in.
Busy working
the present,
she loves consequence
and no consequence,
me
and you.
The room relaxes
as she invents the room.
I can let you let me into the garden.
Our parts share the best lines,
gaps,
but end differently, are different people.

We return to the stage
in costume
as ourselves.
[They dance together]
Thank you