It’s a fact
that every family has an aunt
with her fingers
behind her back.
She will (probably) inhabit the following
(filling up every corner and fold)
1. A house by the sea.
With more sea in than out.
2. Tent like dresses.
That let her feet become acrobats
dangling from her ankles.
3. The ‘guest’ room.
This simple, fine haired character is not usually a protagonist.
Not even in her own poem / painting / stitching / song.
But upon her fibre
1. You can’t unwhisper a secret.
No matter how loud you scream its antonym.
2. You can’t unmake a baby.
Even if you wipe your slate clean.
3. You can’t unlie a lie.
every 33.3 days
someone with unworked hands
(or white hair, parted half an inch off centre)
where my blood is from
scent it’s rich red.
with glass eyes
and an actor’s accent
in order to
my way into the hearts
of the rich.
Inside their ever pulsing mansions
they give me
in each of their four chambers.
ruined by my own licked fingers
just so I could prove to the red red walls
that they were real.