Melancholia

These days, you
Ball yourself into
The covers

Such are the nest
And those that
Nest within, a sign

Of the mood.
You huddle
The crouch of
Broken-winged bird

And sleep
Mostly.

The shades are drawn
Excluding the window,
All shades of leaves

For there are many.

I bring you things
In the afternoons.

A satchel of chestnuts.
An orange newt I’d found
Squalling out of the mud
On the pavement.  Sequins.

Sometimes, I traipse through
Your room with mudlogged boots
Leaving traces of the earth else
You would surely forget

The scent. How to speak it.
The way you used to hold me tight
With your legs until I’d gasp.
To make sure, I was alive.

It was tiresome.
You were. Bringing
Pieces of the earth
To you.

Now your eyes are wide
As a fawn’s and glassier
Than I remember.

Remember how we’d
leave the bedroom
To collect beetroot,
Mushrooms, lavender. When
We’d find outside all the old
Spaces in the town  --- what
No one ever kissed anymore.
That was when, you told me, lying
Together in the nighttime,
How the sunrise carried
With it bowls and bowls
Or oranges, dripping
With happiness.