Tremors

Any feather, oiled and sprung, can be
smoothed over, its tensile spine lulled,
unwound by a touch. I stuttered darkly
for months, coiled and tired in my bones,
and fed on regurgitated love-lung.
No more — you, waiting for hours
in the airport lobby, were the light
that struck my unwrung nerves;
cabin pressurised and frayed all over
I was hand-held and led across
the city. That night we clung, lumps
trembling to sleep, sung off by cats
fornicating on the sly. I let out a
rib-deep whale sigh I'd been holding
since the winter. You remade my rag
and tatter skull, stitched and whistled,
needle between your teeth, and stood
me up again, shook the splinters from
my skin, patched me up where I
was thin. You can just sleep, mouth
gulping like a frightened child's, your
head in my lap, until the TV startles
you awake again. This shiver; pop
of a flash bulb in my iris, baby blue;
vivid thread strung out from me to you;
shudder of my diaphragm puppeteering
a tremor to my fingertips; my stars
racing your stripes and rolling, spastic
with laughter, to the floor —fits and
taut translations never turn a hair
to time. There's no hole you can't coax
me out of, sleeping beauty, you're mine.