My mind is sliding into seas and no one is noticing
no one has mentioned the faint smell of sanity
My mother has cooked eggs.
The third time this week,
and stuffed with cheese.
It takes a day for a chicken to make an egg, two more for it to reach the store – that is a seventeen minute slow walk from this front door – and three sitting in a cupboard before my mother cracks them into a bowl seasoned with chives, it takes four minutes to cook the eggs and then another two once flipped, it is approximately twenty five minutes of me staring for them to go cold
I don’t know the length of time it takes them to reach the ocean
floating alongside dead goldfish.
I had this dream where I climbed a mountain.
I was accompanied by a large white falcon
who sang hymns.
My father went to buy milk;
it has now been seven years and my cereal is still dry.
I sat in the park and watched women wearing fur walking their
dogs, but actually the dogs were walking the women.
We are a misguided species
and one day the canines will be king.
They thought it was unsinkable because they hadn’t accounted for the ice.
They think we are unsinkable
But the ice will screw us over again.
It’s easier than you think to sink
My reality is relocating
like the clouds after they have emptied themselves
On Wednesdays my mother luncheons with her friends.
Over strawberry daiquiris and
calorie counted mouthfuls
They speak of how their sons are applying to Princeton
or the sort of man they wish to find for their girls.
My mother smiles and sips and hopes they forget she has a daughter.
If you could be anyone else who would you be?
I would be Jolene Williams
whose funeral I accidentally attended last Sunday.
She was twenty one years old and died in a mortar accident.
Even though everyone was crying and calling it a tragedy
I knew – like she probably knew,
Lying on the pavement in petrol –
That she had a lucky escape
Got out early.
‘God just needed a new angel’
but apparently he won’t take applications.
We’re bigger than the world,
Really I’d just be doing everyone a favour.
My mother is allergic to eggs.
What if I did’t account for the days
If the new year passed by because you were still living in the last
Are the seven days of a butterflies life an eternity to their
Time only exists because we watch the clock.
How can we be expected to live in such irrationality?
Dr Jenkins is trying to help me locate myself.
He wants me to find it
so that I may reestablish my footing in the world.
But the world is
even more so than the park pavements after
But I smile at Dr Jenkins
in the same way that I smile at my mothers friends
and talk of my plans to apply to college some time
whilst writing down my favourite baby names incase I forget
and learning how to make strawberry daiquiris
but not too much rum so I can’t stand to sing in church
and I must keep myself pretty for the boys
and never eat all the cake
but do read, just not too much
make omelettes because eggs are good for chickens
and don’t forget the kiss for the new year
is that petrol in the air
it’s okay for birds can be white in dreams
and fathers turn sour like milk anyway
don’t worry about the dog it’s made out of ice
and you have folded in on yourself like an angel
wearing wings for rain
one day soon
it will all be over
we’ll know the taste of water on our breath.