The days wrap themselves around me
like worn shawls.
I am cold, always
on the point of shivering.
Nights come stunted and maimed,
undernourished children
with no place to go.
This night I dream of happy
endings: the hero, turbaned, rouged,
made up with heart-shaped lips, penciled
brows, married to the ingénue
to keep her safe because he loves
is not in love with her and
wake to find you and me
and the war-orphaned babies in London
who died from lack of touch
and my own chilled body moving,
moving in close to the heat
of your back. Your back.
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