The Language of Inflections
When she said ‘could’, it was clearly in italics
and when she said ‘one day’, the creak of glaciers
shuddered around its edges. The way she said
‘yes’ was a stone dropping down a bottomless well.
When he said ‘trust me’, it was a foot testing
for woodworm and when he said ‘forever’, it was
the dripping of fuel and the lit cigarette.
His smile was a drawer slamming shut.
When they both said ‘I do’, it was fire and ice
and in the darkness of the night, their breathing
was the sound of children, cowering beneath blankets,
praying that monsters lack acuteness of hearing.
Ben lives in the south of England between the forest and the sea.