They
don’t knock on doorsnot
all of them familiarity
is password enough family
is licence after
all and
they come and
they come and
they take and take and take, and
little dolls don’t
know how to cry not
always - they stay crumpled in a corner they
just die they
just die they
just die.
Heart
played mind sometimes
with the white pieces of clarity and
sometimes with the black of
unreadable heart twinge, and
mind, playing heart, likewise
played black now moves
wrought in the fires of known-rule clothe
in the dark ash of logic, or
white in
the simple clarity of
as-is safety. They
played and played and
neither won and
neither lost and
never did they agree to draw. LEAVE A COMMENT
She
measures height how
far she’s come this
magic-bean baby playing
with theories of relativity not
saying but wondering 'When
will I catch up?' in
the ways of sisters, measuring
the timber of rivalry against
me; but
she’s come far from
cradle to crawl stumble
to sprint from
lift-me-up to
‘I will reach your shoulder soon’; come
night, though she
turns into baby takes
womb-shape and I can't stop kissing this made-for-love girl.
Men
and womencome
with bone, vein and sinew and
other corporeal parts: that’s
biology. Men
and women are
often hurt-made and
love-seeded, colour
and flavoured ideologied
too. But
men and women are
but words or
letter combinations burning
unpredictabilities and
punctuated out of season. And
those rare creatures slip
through wire fly
through screen; doors
don’t stop them and
they are invisible to
the sentinels of reason and rule. They
dissolve the universe and
re-draw sunsets in
the colours of their choice.
