i've been told it's a crime to need anybody,
to build a house around anyone,
play lost boy to their wendy-bird,
honeycomb walls up around them.
will love be always stillborn, pulling away
on a train before it breathed its first breath?
the windows are too far apart and we're rattling
around like the only two coins in a beggar's tin cup.
i was the sparrow to your hawk, the doe to your wolf,
the girl to your boy, and now i'm writing my own map.
i'm an apple, cored, my skin's growing thicker, red and serene.
i found my voice; it was hiding in my mouth:
i was the goosegirl, combing my hair, and you
chose your hat over me, over my hair the colour of
old coins, old coins like all the days i spent.
