Busy little hammer on your block of wood,
dark wine setting the house on fire,
how diligently you work, how tirelessly,
what scant attention I have given you
till now, unveiled – ba-boom –
inside your tiny shed on a screen before
surgery that will slow you almost to standstill.
In an antenatal room, twice,
I saw my daughters’ hearts tucked in
below mine, and listened as your pink bouquet
fell softly open, closed again.
Through the clinic windows, winter darkness
shuffles slowly in. The cardiologist is ticking off
his checklist, night is ringing its bells,
the echo of their tolling bounces off the walls:
busy little hammer on your block of wood,
how perfectly compatible we are,
how I’ll love you until that final nail.
