I called up my childhood and it came
the wounded kitten with its matted fur
a tall nun skipping with her skirts pinned up
hatpins, honeysuckle, liquorice, waterwings
my gentle grandpa stretching his hands out to the fire.
The Banshee came, and the Great Cat
the silky scarf my mother bound her hair with
the rosary, soupbones, all my lost friends
a red cloth apple filled with cotton wool.
All my hurts, all my delights to come
are there, sewn deep into the world.
What do I know but this?
My long legs take my body on
through high country, thinner air
my body in its coat of breath
and at the heart of it, the child alive.
photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/75920141@N02/8217291075/