(As if sitting in a wooden box)
I confess.
I confess to feeling the pain of needs unmet and overlooking it,
to hearing the opening of things, the closing of them too
the confidence of a heart unbroken say "I'd like to try!"
and a cold bitter laugh in a triumph of parsimony.
I confess to doing less and allowing it in my own vulnerability.
(As if tearing a casing spun of silk)
I am a catalogist, rebuilding a place
In my defence I have known you less, but even now -
there are no reference books to your emotions or reactions
no rule of thumb except to ease anger, aid logic, clear runways.
(As if the knowing was as easy as the learning)
together we are four decades of stubbornness and pain and kindness
we are warmed feet on the black range cooker
we are the climbing wall at the fair
You are three dots, ellipsis, open-ended.
and i am writing bad poetry about a girl who can fly...
a birthday present
