after ‘Quiet People’ by Moniza Alvi
His wife and I are peaceful people
but that does not say
it is rare.
We swing
thunderstorms between us,
split budding fruit
from budding branches,
share lipsticks
like domino masks.
She is quietly excited,
a great composer
in full swell,
full crescendo or blooming.
We have our signs –
wide open window,
ajar garden door,
a sheet spread
over the flowerbeds.
I listen through the neighbours
mowing their yellow lawns
for our promise –
by grace or trial,
send a clear note
like cutting
silence
with ivory or air,
her own
wild fingers,
her own
tangled hair,
laying it
sashimi
at my feet.