You stepped in and stood behind me, gathered
my hair loosely and bound it with a twist
tie from the drawer. I looked to the left, not
understanding you were protecting me
from my task at the sink. I had swung
my hair to get it to stay behind my
shoulders and you saw that I had ordered
things wrong again and had just sunk my hands
into the bellies of fish.
I turned my head just a little,
feeling you gather my hair so gently.
You explained.
Days later, I ask you to find the tie,
which I pulled out and left on the sill when
we went to bed. I noticed it there
in the morning before I left, strands caught
in the wire. I picked it up, put it down,
said aloud – no I’ll leave it.
Now I ask you to find it because I
want to keep it so I remember your
gesture of the love I think you feel but
don’t say.
