Writing a lullaby
My womb sits among those that flutter, the ripe and newly vacant ones, the how come you look so great already? In awe of their need to make womb songs for babes, sing lullabies with sounds of new love and shushing; I reconnect with my long retired space. She sings me a sea-shanty about a mermaid who pried open slammed wave doors, helped uncover her non binary child.
Cinnamon coffee seeds a desire to snip, chop and repair this mountain of cloth
I clear the table of half seaglass snowmen, heft the machine to stained wood. Decent scissors, pin cushion, tape measure, new pack of needles and wooden reels of Woolworth’s Silko in shades of too many. I reach for shout-red dress, unravelled hem, excessive split; recall my heel caught in a wood crack, the pile-up on the stairs as I bent to yank it out; the scarlet thread-trail leading from our room the next morning. I thread the machine in brazen-fire.
A splash of cola in the bucket for penny shine
Town kids finger-push sand around deck chairs, rake for cockles below seaweed lines, buzz the beach with metal detectors. Mum’s kitchen fork finds tarnished coins, ring-pulls, an array of what-nots. Keeps plink into the red bucket. We jostle on the slip at the ice cream van for a Lyons Maid Orange or Mr Men; if we crab-scuttle enough, a Rocket.
Flight of the dragonfly 