Sunday, April 3, 2011

Stuffed

She has her mood swing. You have your ax.

By my window is a bed. She has a head. There’s someone in her head that’s not you.

She and you are one. I’m that random no one. We have history. I have a tale to tell.

I bring tidings. She brings cookies. You make a wish.

She holds the tiffin. You're the honey-hunting bear. I hold the fork. We play possum.

She releases a baby bat—she found and grew fond of on her porch—thinking it could fly. It is pecked by a crow.

She's a boy. You're a girl. I too. We play hard to get.

A garden lizard pokes its head and before it's withdrawn it comes tumbling down. Your marble found its mark.

We play building castle in an open field. I keep shooing the crows. She spreads the tiles. You keep shooting your marbles losing them all. It’s time to learn crows are of different kind.

In the schoolyard you chase a stray dog tennis ball in your hand. In the same yard you freeze when you spot a fox. You knew before you made a move it ran like hell—unlike a dog—swift like wind.

You wear the linen. She wears the match. We play arson.

In her kitchen is a fridge. You haven't a head. There’s something in the fridge that’s not her.

At twelve there’s a bus. You aren’t coming like she is.


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