Sitting there, talking to
no one in particular,
she swings her
little bruised legs
with Frozen band-aids stuck all over.
I don’t really like the cherry ones
and I wanted the blue-raspberry but I still like the
mystery Airheads because they’re
white and funny and you don’t know what you’ll get
so I don’t mind having to eat this mystery one even if it’s cherry.
She takes another bite and
chews in time with her
like a metronome keeping her
conversation at an undecided tempo.
I could tell it was cherry,
it has the loudest smell
but it tastes kinda funny
like medicine for my sore tummy
(hehe, that rhymed)
but I have to eat it
because it’s a present from my mummy.
She points her red Mary-Jane toes
to scrape the sand.
Her feet barely touch the
surface and she carves undefined
lines into the sand, her eyebrows knit
together in thought.
She stops chewing and swallows,
hops down onto the ground,
erasing the light breaks of the surface
her pointed toes had carved before.
She points the toe of her right foot
and places it on the ground in front of her and
swings it around dragging
a circle in the sand about her.
She draws a map of her world.
She is the centre
My teacher says, “Home is where the heart is,”
but I don’t get how my mummy
and me can have
two different homes
’cause mine’s wherever she is
but hers is at work.
A white car glides up to the park gate,
the door swings open.
A flash of cherry-red seats before she runs to it.
Then her scarred, Frozen-band-aided legs
clamber into the cherry-flavoured car.