Valerie Bridge
And Gliding
into where
silence flares,
flowers,
and twists,
as barley sugar
she once tasted
at a fair, riding
a carousel horse,
laughing at her father’s
round glasses,
precariously perched,
over his black beard;
he’s watching her,
sipping his mocha,
a rose in the glass
and she spins:
on her left arm,
in blue black
a number:
that of a hut, a shelf,
no mattress, a cover
where lice ride bare-back,
and she earnt water with bread,
cabbage water, sometimes
water with no additives
and now she’s gliding
like barley sugar twists,
breaking as a glass just
thrown at the fire
Page(s) 44
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