Answers To His Question Poem by Tara Teeling

An old question
rises up in an argument,
like lava or hot soup in a pot.

What do you want? ! ,
he roars for every man
who has ever been skinned
by the riddles of women.

She gives her side of it.

Her hair brushed from her forehead
when her hands are busy
with other things.

To be told that
her face and body are meant
to be the subject of a painting,
one which should be hung in any room
where he spends his time.

Kisses on the forehead when she is sleeping,
when she walks in the room or
when it seems likely to calm her,
distracting her from disposable comments.

A finger to smooth her cheek
when she is somewhere between
this reality and another, bridging them,
anchoring her to the middle
where their connection resides.

To know that her ideas are worthy
of more than a momentary musing,
each statement weighed and measured
even if it is a foreign sort of thinking.

Compliments on the effort
that went into burnt toast,
or a hand on her back that gently pulses
to reassure her when she shies from
eating meat that is still bloody.

To know that a man can be left alone
to his thoughts and cravings
and not have them wander into
the yards of neighbours.

For the flowers he brings
to have meaning, none of which
have roots in beginnings or endings.

Her tears to be seen as
the residue of pain,
not a tool of manipulation,
and for his attempt to dry them
with his heart, rather than his sleeve.

Surprises on days without occasion,
breathless love on lazy, cold mornings
and conversation over piping tea cups
or long-stemmed glasses of red.

To speak with silk in her voice,
rather than with repetition or
the echoes of raucous cries of
a lioness with a thorn in her paw.

His forgiveness after she
spews muddy words which
cause her face to colour
with shame and delusion.

Contrition when he sees that
he too is capable of mystery and
heated exclamations, and that there are
times when he wraps himself too tightly
in what brings him peace,
leaving her to fumble madly in the cold.

To be comforted by the
intimate awareness of his scent,
the feel of his hands, the texture of his skin,
and to be intrigued by
the knowledge that there is
always something undiscovered
within.

For his question
to be asked with the
authentic want of an answer
and for it to be heard.