water is high for pipi
two cold inches deep
our hands are wintered
our gumboots have small holes
we work with slow ache for
one
single
bucketful
but there is not breath enough
to keep our four hands warm

I brave chills
because you have seven years
on me
and you were there
the first time
I held pipi

dig your fingers into sand
strike hard shell
wash a little as you bring them up
dig the small ones back in

your mother once told me the story
of your birth
being dragged under
while you were cut out
by obstetricians
though she kicked
and she cried

your mother has never
trusted men or doctors since

but somehow loves
one scruffy
intact tom cat
who has fathered
a whole neighbourhood
never sticks about
to watch the babies come
smoothly in parcels
never stays to watch
mother nibble away
each pearly membrane
her rough tongue
draw open each first breath
her tired belly rise and fall
the milk in pools
about kitten mouths

when we get home
we take the back door
shut it rough
while winter air reels
and sighs through house cracks

we put the pipi in the bathtub
and you fuck me
while I worry about whether
my whimpers are inspiring

either way it's warmer than before
either way your skin is smooth
and I am a pock-marked curve beside you

we take the pipi
out of the chilling bath
help them into a hot one
with a slice of butter
stop their quiet filtering
through sea breaths
pluck congealed thumb tips
from shells

your mother is guilty
of taking the small ones
turning them slow
in warm tap water
running her thumb
over their shined lips
to touch the hard groove
the living tightness

your mother is guilty
of killing quick in wine
sucking
brine deep