I am writing in your eyes
As I listen to you
As you laugh
I sigh my poem
Between the gaps in the day
While carrying the laundry basket
I stop at rhyme-words
Folding your blanket
Beneath the corners of the mattress
I press a metaphor
Against your forehead
And promise you some more comparisons
Then I close the door
And gather up the leftovers of my day
Gently
Together
In your toy box
A patch of thought on the washing line
A knife wipe in the tray
The evening is like the morning before the next day
Everything has its place
But there is nothing on paper
—
There is nothing on paper
But the walls resound with the chirp of your laugh
I can’t let anybody see how hard I work
But the peace in your body shows me that you are having a good time
There is nothing on paper
The words float among the to-do lists
In watering the plants
Between the dust particles on the baseboards
Behind the sofa
There is no CV for the poet without a pen
Who works magic from moments
Makes ballads and songs from each
There is no CV for my greatest achievement:
Unconditional love
Ego taking last place
Fashion and hairdressing always on the backburner
The feeling that I have to defend myself when I say I am not looking for a paid job
I have time for a sincere smile in the street
I pick you up every day after your first month of school
At the traffic lights with your brother in the pushchair, I brainstorm a new poem
Life then makes me forget it
Because there is nothing on paper
But I have an eye
For the floating word
Its journey
Before it is recorded
The whole day I look
And I touch
The structure
To my tongue
I have antennae
Winding
Up to every outer wall
The words collide with each other all day
I feel them vibrate
My detailed sense of touch
And I know how you are
Sometimes I fall for the trap
Believing I’m worthless because I’m not on paper
I have nothing to say how ‘cool’ I am
Except feeling and knowing I’m doing what’s right for me
Then I sigh deeply
Rub a verse through your hair
Sighing a blank line with only a smile
Tuck in the right corners of your blanket
And think:
Life is not on paper
But in my suspended words