Helen Mort

Excerpt

While You Weren’t Listening

I heard the glass
say to the tabletop:
I like the way you hold me.
I heard the table
answer back:
I like the way you feel.
The barstools
thanked the floor
for all the nights it propped them up
And though
I didn’t catch the floor’s reply
it sounded delicate
and I wondered
what the wind says to the trees outside
to make them swoon like that
and what it tells
the grass
to set it shivering,
or what it is
that’s spoken when you
press that bottle to your lips,
what passes there
between you
in that silent and repeated kiss
that seems to say
I’m here,
I’m listening.