biography
day
At twenty-seven she learns
her ladders and the baby falls.
Two years back she moved in
a white house where the windows had broken sashes.
At two she developed a way
of losing her breath but winning arguments.
A piece of concrete holds
the clues, a handprint, pressure vein, gum, dandelion.
The baby fed for three months
badly, thin milk splitting her nipple.
By twenty-nine she may grow
sunflowers and believe in herself.
The x-ray of her left wrist
shows it was broken but will not say how.
Custody arrangements have
been made for the benefit of everyone.
Some time later destiny took
love from her like a piece of skin.
At sixteen, of course, a religious
experience.
Ten years is the maximum for
holding your mother’s hand, after that you must cross
roads without your fingers
signalling emptiness.
Twenty-one is a day to throw
out clothes, blue make-up and lockable diaries, where
people stand for capital letters.
The lost breath held itself
together in a hidden sac of her body.
A diligent and friendly student,
but hampered by frequent illnesses, nevertheless a
virtuouso Lady Macbeth.
You notice looking at your
child that the eye is constructed of tiny fibres.
Men liked nineteen heavily
painted, wet with the sound of yes.
At six the sunshine tells
a long fairy-tale, kisses push up under her skin.
The lost breath practices
poetry trying to find the sounds it should have made.
One day at the races she remembers
an injured horse.
She turned up once in a dress
her mother made and her stepmother took her home.
For the millenium she plans
to nail something desperate to the wall.
And the stall floor clotting
hotly with its arterial pumpings.
Mummy’s here, go back to sleep.
At seven she spent a whole
afternoon in her grandfather’s gardern, swotting with a
tennis racket at white butterflies.
At nine the solicitor arrived
to allocate matrimonial property, her mother made soft
noises and smashed dishes
in the sink.
At dinner time you must eat
what you’re given.
Seventeen butterflies in the
strings.
She takes voices out of her
depth and bites the side of her fingers, paste is applied to
her hands but the bad sounds
travel around her head.
At two the baby takes a three
dollar map of the earth to bed.
©
1999
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