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The chain of my necklace

was knotted and I wore it anyway,

wanting to wreath myself

in something shiny for you –

a bowerbird, calling

calling calling:

want me. 

You noticed and reached

with large hands,

oil-stained,

for my neck

as, unthinking,

I swept aside hair – 

a curtain lifting –

and welcomed you closer.

My own hands found pockets,

wings folded,

and I watched you

undo small links of gold

but also, me:

Something long corded and hard

grew molten

beneath my breast –

an ingot tossed

to a fire

I’d forgotten.

The sunlight through mullioned windows

tiled our two-headed shadow

into something tidy

as you lingered over

replacing it, the necklace,

with such care

I nearly cried.