She brought thoughts,
words rather than grapes,
slipped out among
laundered clothes.

Little offerings best
but today he wanted more
and she couldn’t deny him.
Her tongue spilled stories

he devoured, egged her on
until the cough again,
for a cardboard bowl.

After he risked a laugh,
as if to test
he could, it still worked.
It did—

that look in his eyes—
both of them wanted more.
He raised
a plastic tumbler, toasted the day.



Mary Wight lives in the Scottish Borders. Her poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies, most recently StrixNew Writing Scotland, Firth, Envoi and The Blue Nib.