Rue

Rue

So spring came and she said
tell me when you stop
hoping
and we will have a class
where the blackboard chalk is cotton wrapped
and the book coats stripper slip
to let out ant types who blanket horse backs
fill in forests
make meaning pavements bleed alphabets.

The cut out stair way
wind traps zebras,
the cup cake face
who rings on Sundays
explains she props books up with bricks
that her wardrobe’s a calendar
of stomach lining, magpie, lip flake.

In the garden the milk moon moves through navy
and like paper chains graining
or little fists drumming the table top
it does not make supper taste any better
the work routine un-tesselate
or the letter box less obsessed with accounting.

And when you hold your once pianist fingers
shell instrument out
and the smaller sister stands in front of the window
her hair all lit
and what she says makes your hand heart ache
so that clearing the table of bottles
becomes quite difficult
and who knew there were so many sounds
in stages.