A belated day 2!
Her body,
Like Butterfly,
Breaks at fingertip.
Strength melting in the sun.
She thinks about things that seven year olds think;
The rings in the pond.
The pink of the duck house.
The droplets on the leaves.
And at ten, when she wakes,
The birds watch through the windows,
Whispering her to get up,
Their seeds moulding to the table.
Inside,
Her bones twist like grape vines,
She uncurls. She greets them,
Unwraps her spine.
She wakes to imagine she’s seven,
And there are no coffee marks on the table tops,
No dust on the skirting boards
No pans that need cleaning left next to the sink.
But underneath I know,
Her body,
Like butterfly,
Will break at fingertip.
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