I circled my slack hand
across damp bark.
Words refusing to walk
straight lines.
Half-sentences,
built on fear,
not quite reaching your ears.
Your eyes strummed
catkins,
heavy with pollen,
you made small-talk
about hazelnuts
and squirrel tails.
Then as we reached
the apple tree,
We cast aside
inane chatter.
Instead borrowing,
the language of leaves.
The soft breeze
moved the
stiffest branches,
to reveal:
a golden apple.
You cupped my hands
like the most
delicate water,
and silence sliced us
to the core.
Nisha Bhakoo is a British poet based in Berlin. Her most recent poetry collection is “Spectral Forest” (The Onslaught Press)
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This article appears in the 12 Jan 2022 issue of the New Statesman, The age of economic rage