Matt Bryden

All Talk

Your wonderboy—he showers
within a splash of the two bare bulbs
whose ceramic shades he shouldered

onto the tiles, opening
his arm in a crease
deserving better account

—like my brother punching his cupboard door
    and revealing its hooverbag cardboard
    before turning against himself;
    or the myopic scrawling
    which covered—in two
    half hour stretches—the door to his room.

He flatters, despite certain rebuff,
for shuffling through the night,

dreams he is a mother that lost a child.
You find his breast as his hands prove
anything but wandering, sigh.