TUESDAY AFTERNOONS

    an earthquake at 3:05, for a moment there is light
    trembling on the spines of medical books
    the mysterious diaries on the top shelf, I redirect my eyes
    when you unfold your legs and
    there is a flush of warmth in the room.
    your hand draws circles on a pad of paper
    traces lovingly the diagram of an African village
    to you these words we use are only words
    to me they are still magic, each book a ruby key,
    their bindings have not aged in years.

    this year sees you at fifty
    it sees you comfortable inside your cotton shirt
    picking out jellybeans from a jar on the desk,
    white or red or black
    colours you explain to me, the innocence and passion
    and the thing that frightens us most.
    I can taste them inside your mouth, wet,
    luscious with meaning.

    the shape I form of you between my hands
    is weightless, it stands between us
    voluptuous like a vowel, a figure fluid
    as you settle here, removed for this hour
    from the dimensions of your life.
    your smallest smile is still sharp with wonder,
    and fifty seems a good age for you.
    over the years, your office stayed white like princesses,
    as in the fairy tales.

    some days you laughed, some days your eyes harboured
    a suspicion of wet, your legs were crossed or uncrossed, your hands
    were filled with pens or toy hearts or marble sticks.
    sometimes you spoke as if there was a child in the room
    when there was only me;
    I spoke for years as if there was a crowd in the room
    when there was only you.
    you survived the hatreds and the lusts,
    black, red, you knew the colours.

    when light shattered across the floor
    and briefly there was thunder between us,
    if your eyes had held water it would not have spilled
    and when we peeled aside the dreams
    the skin underneath was still young. when all was black
    you smoothed aside the words and said,
    It's there, the light, when you want it it'll be waiting for you -
    and a certain peace came into your eyes,
    that this was no different, that this was so different
    yet every bit the same, and your hands stilled with satisfaction.
    you did this without touch so that all around me your hands stood
    shaped like shelters, all around me there was room
    and after each hour the hallways outside were like caverns
    and around the corner and down the stairs
    there lurked as always, light, as ever, light.

    Evelyn Lau