thingamabob

There were days when the sprinkling of wet tooth-paste on her bushy hair would inspire her. When she could fill the blanks of stammering lines with clumsy paste. When she would be feeling the round corners of her limitations, feeling them fall off like cracked up ceiling paint. When she would tell all the boys and girls that there were genuine things, like scribbles, like doodles, like some breaths. When the glass would sweat next to her without achievement but giggles. There were times when her day would flap back like a loyal slipper. When her dusty doll would allow her to comb her hair, touch those sparkling eyes and bake her pie. There were times when writing would seem just fine, when the widened eyes of her window-soul would open up to her finger-words, settling somewhat, smiling somewhat.

I rubbed the square-shine on my eyes,
Disintegrating words with a rolling finger,
Sniffing survival, desperately,
Establishing connection; recalling.

Swallow moth-shaped dust parts,
Look again, beneath her lower lip,
She has teeth marks, her very own,
Slicing out cherry throats; staining.

Not forced, yet rubbery, half genuine,
The colours of a baby’s toy, likely,
A piece containing ‘skin’, ‘moon’ or ‘stars’,
Laugh out without the lower tongue.