I have worked you like a goldsmith in the Bible
who spins love’s silver thread
until, cack-handed, he breaks it.
I have beaten you like the Makonde carver
who hammers at ebony, exorcising it
until he drags out the dark and ancient demon
the wood possessed.
And I’ve spoken to you like a sceptical poet
who patiently forgets the lines revealed
by a quick glance between two cars,
by peaches lying bruised in an icy light,
by a pinch of death that huddles beneath a shirt,
and forgets in peace and with perseverance
until, when words impress themselves on his lips,
he accepts the fragile trace of feeling.
Today I saw you – image
of you turning round on the bus –
like one who sees an object:
two silver spirits devouring each other
head to tail inside a jewel,
a dying, deformed devil
setting life’s ebony bodies free,
a line written under the sword of silence:
I have worked you like a goldsmith in the Bible.