A Little You

As a child, I noticed as her fingertips traced
white on the chalkboard, her feet moved –
they slid and tiptoed, tripping sometimes,
in rhythm with silent music, so I asked
Do you dance when no one is looking too?
 
            Then for me, she tapped out
            an answer from heel to toe
            with a hip and a hop,
            rock steps and two steps
            stomping, you must be a little me
 
Once, her belly lay on the grass
like a lizard on a rock in the sun
her fingertips tugging gently at her eyes
only to make an o with her lips
and blow as if releasing imaginary dandelion
seeds sprouting from her fingerprints, so I asked
Have you run out of eyelash wishes too?
 
            So she batted her lashless eyes
            which tattled on her wishful ways
            childishly flirting, you must be a little me
 
On occasion, I hide my observations –
store them away in dusty attic boxes
to not notice her weak sentiments
sitting at the bottom of the closet floor
like all the small children’s coats, but I asked
Do you cry alone in small closets too?
 
            Her slightly wet hands linked with mine
            pulling me to the closet to help her
            fill the negative space
            absent of clothes and lunchboxes
            shedding a story, you must be a little me
 
Also, on spring afternoons when wind
is calm and her body lay silently still
her hands, pressed down into the soft
flesh of her flat stomach, rhythmically
beat – driven by some inner force, so I asked
Can you feel the little baby kick too?
 
            Grasping my arm, she flattened
            my palm over her belly button,
            over the soft thump of the pump
            of the blood of her energy
            offering a telling smile, you must be a little me
 
Then that one day came, when the sleeves
of her shirt where slinked up her arms
and her long skirt fell slightly to the side
revealing colours of internal bleeding
encapsulated by the thin layer of skin
there stood smilie faces in the hand
prints of her bruises, so I whispered
Does your Daddy hit you too?
 
© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/
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