You tell me he beat you black and blue;
pick at the frayed ends of your sleeve.
I monitor my voice and repeat: black and blue?
Nicotine-tipped, your fingers twist and untwist
a cat's cradle of bones and skin—battered,
was what they used to say—like fish and chips.
Your eyes flick back and forth across my face,
in search of something to trust or to heal.
You've allowed me to slip into your space,
and I wonder where on earth we go from here
as I wait in the grey and silent moments
of my trade; not too fast not too slow, look sincere.
The clock's hands flutter at time passing by
while I study your face for clues; ponder
why I do this job; wait for you to cry.
You surprise me with laughter, repeat black and blue
choke on the phlegm of a smoker's guffaw: tell me
bruises, you know aren't really black and blue.
Now you are chanting like a child skipping rope;
one up on me perhaps, but maybe we're level
or could it just be you have given up hope?
But you told me he beat you black and blue… and
you pick once more at the frayed ends of your sleeve;
while we pick over the threads of your life.