CAROLE NELSON PHILLIPS
For lena

one of those weeks
you know?
..and I'm seeing it
like a black cake &
I'm icing it red..
then cutting it &
each slice is a
memory....

a child, the skin
off tainted milk
is scraped up, packed in
one suitcase & set
in shame on the steps
of her grandmother's
house

lena removes visible
aspects of the child,
burns underwear,
pink dresses
bow waisted &
kitten bordered.
cuts wool cloth,
green, black ,
sews it into
straight shifts,
one cat head
pocket, no zips

she cuts off
the hair the
child sits on
& the shorn child
is a refugee in
her grandmother's
house & stops
speaking, runs
thin fingers across
delicate glass,
watches with silent
eyes as some things
grow & other
things die inside

behind a chintz chair
in lena's house, the
child hides a book
to be found, pencil
drawings on lined
paper, bodies, big
on top of small &
the silent child calls
from the pages.

the book vanishes,
and lena buy's a
brown suitcase,
packs up the
tainted skin of
the child, three
wool dresses &
leaves it on the
grey steps of
another house