A song lives in Leonard.
It is most particular,
not from his belly nor lungs,
yet informed by breath.
The sound tenderness makes,
love distilled to spirit.
Sometimes, I imagine this world
without Leonard in it.
Terror and heart merge,
fell me to my knees.
I stay down there
until I can open again.
Sometimes when I lay on the Table of Mercy
in the skilful hands of my osteopath,
the same noise happens in my throat.
I am reminded of how he lives in me,
In my blood and bones,
and in my very own throat song.
I do wonder if somewhere, just out of sight,
he might be writing a poem about me.
(with gratitude and love to Rose Rouse for her editorial support, and for so much more)