Martha Nye

for a.b.

I fill up the car, it’s night
you go in to buy a can of juice which tastes so
good when you let me have a slug
beside the pumps, popcorn
crumbs on the floor, and we drive back not quite
seeing the mountains in the dark

when we’re home we split salt
& chili chips and triangles of prawn toast
I offer you the last slice but
you don’t want it so I say
I’ll put it in the fridge but I know I won’t ever want it again

we’ve watched the trees rust, leaves
around their ankles
we’ve watched the light stop and
start again for so long now

yes, you eat my biscuits when I hide
them but you always give me the end
of the bag of crisps, you know
I like the pile of salt that gathers.

sometimes I think everything we do is the opposite
you sleep naked and I sleep with my pyjamas
all over my skin, except my arms. my dreams
about snow always go the deepest
you hate the desert but we keep
cactuses. I say I would like to go but
probably I wouldn’t last, I hate sand
in my teeth and I wouldn’t like it without you
anyway