NaPoWriMo #6 - When I grow up

I will grow my air into lilac buds
the sickness of lilies.

The milkman will leave empty bottles at my door
for me to curdle into vases.

I will sing psalms on Sundays to the age spots of my palms.

I will not drink pure white chardonnay like my mother
but swill lime juice between my teeth
and spit.

The crack of moths run floorboards
become hymn whispers.

God will crowd my thoughts with wolf like stalk

I will fish out the familiarity of his lies
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays.

Memories will crowd at the edges of an iron
I will have reached the age of permanent mists
lie grateful.

I will climb barefoot summit
watch where the red rivers run merge
sigh a 77 year migraine ache
knowing how I have made more moons rise than you saw.

I will watch on Friday
wring my wrist with lilies
die on a Saturday
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays

NaPoWriMo: Extract from 'Small Hands'

(...) In the back bedroom is a box

China cracked and glued back together,

Where my milk teeth sour.

I held them in small hands,

quickly too big

and replaced the weight of them

with Fairytales.

I’d never tell you

Just pull on loose teeth

And find magic in the copper of blood

The barbed wire edge 

We found you

In the back bedroom

Plaiting the hair of Barbie dolls

When mine was knot and hairspray backcomb

Tucking the whisper of

Childhood into bed at tea time

As the door slammed behind me 

Guilt rose in a heartburn chest

Where the dance floor turned back to kitchen tiles

You said that ironing

Was a way of remembering

And smile when you found opals in my mouth that I’d mistaken for teeth.

~ Natasha Borton