Friday fumblings

In which 11:30am on a Friday is really difficult so I force myself to wax for two minutes as I wane. & please don't mistake my use of first person for autobiography – is not, is lack of imagination. Last night I ate a whole treacle tart.

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So I drank black coffee and learnt how to regurgitate quietly, and watched as my sternum began to jut gently from beneath my thinning skin. Like I was trying to wear my bones on the outside. Like I was trying to build a wall. – It didn't work. I guess a rib cage is a window.

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My brother threw his hamster at the wall.
It bit him,
drew crimson.
Jerk reactions are like that.
Instinctive,
all primal. 

And then they handed it to me,
a warm burden
in my lap –
to console, nurture, tame. The rabid
aftermath.

But as a girl I always wanted
a tortoise – its shell thick.
Slow and plodding, composed and quiet.

I’d call her Alice
and feed her
lettuce.

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