A Miniature Life

Our dollhouse in a cupboard
a story of a perfect placed
constructed, position fairy tale life

Do you want to stay?
where the pieces match
the tiny china cup and saucer
the carrots next to the peas
stuck permanently to the plate

Maybe you know
that your fingers won't burn
when you hold this little family
playing life
in their house.

Fire

Strike
and struck
the proof of our pain
has been caught
coddled
corrupted
corroded
castrated in the subtlest form
claimed

Claimed, by those who seemed capable
crossed across too many times
the match is probably too comfortable
you and I are going to climb
until the fallacy
crashes, burnt by ether
confounded
possibility un  confused
we will not
cry

Let's Pretend

Let's make a wish
that the Barbie house
becomes our house
let's imagine
that their clothes in the cupboard
are ones we fit into

Let's pretend
that the tennis court is Noddy's town
happy, full of primary colours
let's allow
for the bike to be a red car
in the happy town

Let's make believe
that the Christmas lights are for every Monday
the decorations
are real, for an eternity, let's try
and also
that the waves in the ocean
are warm,
we can float for an afternoon without goosebumps

Let's construct
that all the terror, and hitchhiking horror
never happened, and it was proportioned all right

Let's believe
no grief, belief chorused in the speed, sectioned

a new hymn of life
sung risen.

Liberation

Some days
I don't remember the way you ran

Sometimes
I can't remember how much you cried

I hardly ever recall
the quantifiable amounts
measured out and labelled
by the staff in white coats


the clock continuing the hours
of the toxic voice inside you
again
and again

Perhaps you dreamed of a garden
as you ran and ran away
from the four walls of raw wrists
the isolated marked not fit for life
 they designated
again
and again.

Farm Picnic

Explorers marching
one, two, three
destination undisclosed
little arms moving even more than little legs
march two three four
suspicious, they are
an adult may be peering through a window
tracking the serious travelers
to find the perfect
picnic
place.

Change

they have blossomed here
like two roots in the right rich soil
the tea in a long overdue cup
an accomplishment.

Evening

A disappearance of sun behind the mountain
a small space of light
between the drawn curtains
and instantly
the story is no longer mine

It is the icy wind's comfort story
the birds of the poplar forest
the buildings of red clay

It is a protective story
being born into a place
part of the soil
a story lost
a story of being.