i saw the watercolour portrait
of your eyes
while making tea.
the leaves dissolving
in the water
felt like your gaze
boiling my blood.
sunshine through the window—
i can't cut the ginger.
can't pour the water.
my hands are still shaking
from other work.
so i water the plants on the windowsill,
watch them swing in the wind.
the grave I dig each day
looks more like a garden.
i feed them with what's dying in me.
they've never looked healthier.