Take-away Heart

She appears in the window.

She appears to be watering the plant.

I need to be in your hair

he whispers into her ear.

His tongue drains the room of light

pitched with the fever of

is there someone else

is there is there

In his voice she can hear

a leaf loosening from its stem.

Around him begins to lose its colour.

His jersey slung across the back of a chair

the photograph Blu-tacked to the wall

of he and she locked arm in arm

and on the table those cheerless chicken

wings flailing in their marinade.

Let’s get take-away she says.

I need to be in your hair.