For Ghost or Stevedore

I bought the bottle of port at the store
owned by the Greeks.

Look at those shoulders
she said. You've got the docks in your blood
haven't you.

That bottle of port no one could finish
but me. I shuddered at the last mouthful.

She took the bills
I smoothed special, sacked my wine. My grandfather
was a longshoreman
Shoulders as big as the bay.

Your hair cuts a border down across your face and there
sits a glass of wine in the pipes beneath your sink and two in the fridge
No one knows whether the port is poured cold,
but I pour too much for everyone. This stuff,
more than three sips is too much.

You've gone and I ginger my movements
to keep my clothes creased as
they were under the press of your frame.

She says I look familiar but takes my license
to make sure.

I make tinkering noises louder than they need to be
I make sure everyone knows I'm still here, washing
out all the cups I've used this week
So no one mistakes me
for ghost or stevedore.
A single red star of dried port
at the bottom of your porcelain chalet remains.

Strong, sure.
You're not so strong.
My grandfather,
wide as the bay.
A longshoreman.
He didn't touch this stuff.
A drop never touched his tongue.
He carried me across the ocean.

I found a hook in my head
that mimicked the way you ask me to stay
and I saw a poem
in a half finished building
that like a shock of your hair
against the fainting prettiness of your back,
spoke to me of beauty.

I saw the night sky arch above us
like the shoulders of a dock worker
The stars rippled in the waves of the bay
like the chills you give me.

If you like, I'll carry you across the ocean.