I have dreamt of you suspended
in amniotic fluid, your hair fanned
out and alive, long again, before the cancer.
Undying, our movements synchronised,
us, tied together at the navel,
umbilical cord and all its length tugging
at me, far as it might extend. Gregory Porter climbing
through there will be no love that’s dying
here – his voice, and how it soothes you from
beyond the distant wall of this maybe womb,
the faint rhythm of a bigger heart
above us.