There is a humming time. Morning slips
through the slats of the blinds,
stretches sleep from grey heat across his face.
Breathing in, breathing out

Through the creaking door, unrepaired burners,
boiling kettle screams these things will move.
I won’t let you burn. Careful —
never quite overdone, but always the drum of him

Who looks through these windows,
peers through the holes in my head,
breaks down the wall and hammers in nails.
Water-slick skin shines like pond lights,

Soap suds cling to the backs of his calves.
He blows smoke into my ear.
Chopping pregnant-bellied onions,
dropping pieces on the floor, sliding

Sponges over dishes. This is life as harmony.
And he has settled here. Settled over the lights.
Over the floorboards. A thin layer of smoke,
of smog, of the woodiest smell that never goes,

Even when it rains. He sweeps the veranda,
takes shears to the hedges. His beard burns my chin,
and I laugh. His teeth sink into my skin.
I break apart like a nectarine, and he drinks

Me in. He watches from the window. He keeps this place
safe. Armed from his post, this is a living war,
and we make it war. He makes promises to my unborn son –
he presses his forehead against my knee.

There is an unspoken promise, pulled apart and dissected,
that lingers in the veins of wood beneath our bare feet.
The open window in the kitchen.
The vow of the penniless.​