Deep in the pockets of my memory
are coins rubbed smooth from fingering:
stories I have hoarded, guarded
from the corruption of sharing.

The night we spent in the one-room house
in Kabylia, after broad beans and buttermilk
from a single dish. You in the big bed with him.
The honour.
Me and his wife on the floor.
How in the night she wrapped her arms around me
and from behind the fortress of her belly
her child traced messages on my back.