Poetry

A Love of Headaches

Hand in hand we climb the stairs;
our bellies full of wine and cheese,
each sodden, drunken step disturbs the air.

We are ships listing on heavy seas.
We dock and crumple to the sheets
where those amorous thoughts we harboured, flee

to await resurrection in the hidden pleats
of another night. And so, contentedly, we rasp
into the hinge where tomorrow meets

today. The light of morning comes and we grasp
our hands around each other, around our throbbing heads;
bubbling out of sleep in the usual way, to gasp

in the morning air. Reluctant to leave our bed,
she whispers something.
“I can’t recall my dreams,” she said.

Richard Baker

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