The Dog at the Table

I am not moving towards you
in a way that is threatening
or foreboding. Trust me.

My steps are like my syntax,
measuring out in drops of caution,
spaced in order to give you breath.

As a girl might approach a boy
in a high street coffee shop
only after finishing her drink

might I come to you now
with a lip of foam hiding
the coquettishness of my walk.

And you will stay seated,
reading Milan Kundera’s
‘The Book of Longing

and Forgetting’, as you get
lost in a sentence, and forget
to look up to the angels.

Look up from your borderline.
I’m tearing up the packets.
I’m adding sugar to your tea.