Sunday, April 12, 2015

A Door into my Starry Night

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: