He’d fashioned two love tokens

and placed them by the bed before he left.

I saw the gleam reflected in those fireballs

as I turned to the morning light, four

tiny globes on the table. I stretched out

 

to stroke the mercurial forms suspended

on silver lace bobbins, lifting the finials

to my tongue, rotating them gently

in my mouth, lips encasing, caressing

their compressed Jurassic warmth.

 

Then held the crook, letting them swing,

their slight comforting, reassuring.

The combined weight was a gentle pull

on my lobes, the swing reassuring.

I noticed the inky refractions

 

whenever I lay them in my palms.

In summer the globes swung untrammelled

on their finialled shafts. In cold weather

and muffled against the numbing cold

of a rural parish church concert,

 

I left with shoulders hunched, shuffling

through the congregation to the welcome

night crunch and smell of gravel and privet.

Unmuffling later I searched in vain

for the slight my one lobe missed.

 

Years later I roll the one remaining jet

in my hand and let my lips close again

over dark warmth and cool silver before

once more replacing it in the typesetter’s

shelves alongside other singles.