By the time I was ten, you became
handy at cutting my hair
so I looked like a sunburnt boy.
(but that might have been your unborn ghost)
While you whistled
a song that sounded better
as a whisper underwater.
You argued with a postman
about whose death it was,
while I played my recorder
in the corner, swallowed
the blue glass beads from my lace hem.
No comments:
Post a Comment