You fashioned our world one Friday
from strips ripped from the supplement –
moulded our lives in plaster of Paris
stuck us to the middle of the dining room table,
a streak of calcium leaking onto your chair.
I expected you to put a flag on the highest peak,
but the silence shifted, lifted itself off the table,
scurried round the house scooping up
thoughts and dead skin, dragging them
upstairs to where I sit waiting.
The light here wedges itself under the door
and even though I lean my full weight it doesn’t budge.
There is a manmade world under my fingernails;
and I can’t help putting them in my mouth.
If you have any comments on this poem, Abegail Morley would be
pleased to hear from you.