Shape shifter

I am five when I tell my mother

that I have been eaten.

My mum returns as a crow,

she reads up on anorexics;

picking at bones with her circled beak.

I tell her the story of the Minotaur,

recounting all facts,

its so easy to become lost inside a labyrinth,

when your world is a children’s playground.

When the sun is a meteorite,  

and the grass at the end of road sinking sand.

I push my green evil-eyed peas onto your plate

and mouth “your turn.”

I am your grown up ghost.