She ties the dressing gown around her waist. Lines up her toes where the metal coping separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom tiles. A diver’s stance. Anticipation of the tiles’ coldness.
She steps. Plummets. Side steps the bath mat. Plants her feet squarely. Small ripples quickly subside. The cold tiles prickle the soles of her feet until it stings. Tapers off to an equilibrium.
Repeatedly she will lie on her back on the bathroom floor undressed. Lets the cold of the tiles fight with the heat of her body. She relents. Acquiesces. Adds a layer of permafrost to her heart against the fire of her mother’s tongue.
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A fragment of answer
inside the door
like little children
the notebook was
to never tell lies
the bedside table
a vase of flowers
a dustpan and brush
of flesh and blood
turns to information
there’s mischief in creation
lock the door
to a stop
like a weightless
I am making my Zentangle and Blackout Poetry for sale. Stay tuned.
It is the rhythmic rasp of the sandpaper she likes best. A counterpoint, and companion, voice to her grandfather’s asthmatic wheeze as he makes furniture and occasionally toys. Punctuated by the cough of the match head on the striking paper to light his hand rolled cigarettes.
She can discern by ear the coarseness of the grit against the grain. Jarrah, pine, mahogany. He gives her the cork block and a sheet of sandpaper. Converses with her through each stroke.
She knows, one day, this conversation will cease.
if no children
there’s no story