Clare
She has no name, she is a million
years old, and the gin inside her
has turned spiteful. She’s lost
the man who bought her
but has not yet paid,
she’s lost the key to the house
she can't remember
except for rapping on the panes.
People skirt her, flopped
against stone steps, eyes closed
stretching for some song.
Damp rises through her buttocks
swarms along her spine
earth and sky meld into one
and she, so often alien
only eighty percent water
dissolves into the air. Sluiced,
she swirls inside the shape of her.
She’s Clare. She's four years old
the wallpaper is warm.
Berries on the rowan tree
outside her bedroom window, jig.
