Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle

When you wept for my soul, I pulled cards in your place,

mourned at the altar—watched your faith in me falter.

And when you asked for it, I let the truth unravel

all my blame, from post-script to signed name. 

Alone, I tried to mould the pain into something for my bedside

that could handle the guilt of the prayer candle.

Our secret garden under the Moreton Bay fig—before your fear bloomed

from all that learned hate—we crowned each other with the flowers of our fate.