Love Poetry For Couple

Neil, you were six weeks dead when I was born, the last hours of 1982. Almost thirty years have gone by since then. Driving through Whanganui, I can't get my head around the streets. Parallel to the river, or perpendicular? The map in my mind is a map of the past, probably never accurate to begin with. The river has this kink in it, difficult to align to. I often drive around that bend, the

March, 1941. The coast is a scribble. Stars are stored in a wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than white here. Like algebra but colder. The hut�s walls are a ghetto of mice. Those I catch become whiskers of smoke in the firebox. I attend to the scratching radio. This is not my dream. July, 1942. The short days are long here. Morse code stutters in my aerial. Every door of the home

At first I thought it might be comforting, another body breathing in the dark smelling spiced, content to be awake reading in the little dome of light from your night stand that leaves my side rich in shapes and shadows. I am heavy on the mattress head cricked to one side to stare at the dry pages and harsh hands. You give me smiles and stroke my hair sometimes make honey drinks or tea bring