mummy, you once said that all things have their place in this world:
bicycle wheels spinning aimlessly in the afternoon sun,
& raindrops,
giving up the sky just to get soaked in somebody’s old shirt,
even the house flies hatching all over the kitchen in december, not
knowing that their first winter will also be their
last
mummy, you once said that all things have their place in the world:
even my hands,
pricking themselves over the fuzzy blades of the summer grass,
thumbnails freshly broken from being crammed between
my teeth all morning, still not
knowing how to touch anything without hurting it,
even my own body
mummy, as a baby, it only
took me three months to uncurl my fingers &
grasp the shiny hoops
dangling down the side of your face —
the universe began inside your hollowed earlobes
& i stretched it between my thumb & pinky
until it came to an end
right below your chin
i remember you, pulling
my hands apart & putting them back
together the right away,
around the long neck of a pencil,
& the button nose of the periwinkles,
until i could make enough room
to hold the compass of your palm,
the long needle of your index finger
always pointing home
mummy, these days, i stare at the wingspan of my fingers
& wonder how much force it takes to catch
a beetle, without crushing its soft skull
at school, the boys tussle in the corridors, knocking elbows against jaws,
sticking out legs, tumbling to the ground
but here, there are no apologies, only laughter —
how does it feel to grasp someone else’s knuckles
as easily as grasping the soap suds in the bathwater?
these days, i hold my wrists under the tap until the skin
prunes & wrinkles,
until i can imagine them brushing
through the hair of the girl who sits in front of me
without doing any harm
mummy, do you think seashells deserve to be scooped into the softness
of a toddler’s palms,
even with all their sharp corners?
i spent all of yesterday licking my hands clean
of the stickiness
of the lollipops i stole
from the kitchen drawers,
sucking on the crookedness
of my thumbs, so they could turn warm &
mellow, like an apology
mummy, i am trying to only reach for what is allowed
i am trying to open my fists fully, like
flowers, so easily
loved,
& hold them out for praise
but my fingers, like spiders,
so easily spooked
scurry back into my pockets,
ashamed
mummy, will my hands still be my hands when
i undo the knots of her braid? will you still
rub vaseline on them when it gets really cold?
i know the truth: there is no coming back from touch
but we try
at lunch, the girls sit in a circle and draw shapes on each other’s backs,
here: a star. here: a cloud. here: a butterfly
here: a house with four windows that we will live in some day.
once, someone asked me to step in through the door. once, someone made me tea
& the teachers laughed when they saw us sipping at empty cups
& told us to make the most of this while we still believed in it
but what if i will always find myself in the outline of that house
framed by someone else’s fingers?
mummy, i am scared of all the things i might never outgrow