He is twelve.
His mother tells him turn off Doctor Who and
wash your hands for tea.
In the bathroom he steams.
He carries the fog on his brow to the table,
a storm cloud chewing lighting bolts silent in his distance.
Ten minutes later, he is chatting like
cockatoos after rain.
He still has trouble holding onto clouds.
Café gig cross-legged on the floor
Light like sun through skin
Hot towel music; mulled wine music
The singer is a fireplace
We pendulum to snake charmer flames
We hum like plucked strings
Tones holding us like mothers’ arms.
I tuck in my head, and pull