Hand over Heart

Through the blankets of night
and the soft silk sheets of our bed you slip 
out of sight, the door creaking as you ease it open. 
I watch as you pad your way to the hall
lioness caged in a fleshy being, long-limbed
and elegant even in haste. You turn,
the moonlight a guilty eye – mine are closed.
Faking sleep in the silence. So bite the heel
that walked you home in the rain,
our skirts half torn and my top undone,
that midnight hour – don’t you remember how we ran?
I would give you half of my liver, nearly did
when the doctor pumping your stomach
came out with such a sad, sorry look on his face.
I held your hand so tightly I swear I knew the shape. 
My Galatea, refashioned in your image, 
marble skin cool to the touch as you change
your colours with ease – flighty as the leaves
on the trees. New green, fresh God. I’ll arch my back
for a novel deity this April. I’ll hand over
my heart in a basket; my hands too, nearly did – 

The door makes such a soft noise when it 
closes.