In the days when hair was big she would stand before the oval mirror to backcomb, and, spray in my rosy eyes, I sat behind admiring lipstick as an art form, built and blotted.
I knew she powdered on professionalism, glossing over foibles, preparing for the day.
There were layers, lines drawn, new brows to arch above and accentuate truly beautiful eyes. Properly late, anxiety etched there too, and I sensed her tension where I watched and learned, transfixed.
Biting bullets
Running figures
Indiscriminate loss
Distant neighbours
Grief stricken
Every day.
When we walk across the Bridge rucksacks fill with empathy;
The River far beneath our feet continues to a bigger sea.
At times we carry pain alone,
we share more than we ever own.
There’s a body in the basement
and a head upon the floor
and two arms in different cupboards
and some fingers in the drawer.
There’s an eyeball on the surface
looking down upon the teeth
that somehow escaped from the sink
and clambered underneath.
There’s a heart that’s fast a-beating
and a brain that’s running wild,
attending every meeting
with the bare face of a child.
And if you should ever come across
two legs in isolation,
please apprehend immediately,
and take them to the Station.
