Apple-pip tiny
I want to be apple-pip tiny
so I can crawl through ear canals and the ins and outs
behind the paper thin paper skin, the prefrontal mist
and plant myself there with a megaphone in between fists, unearthing all of the memories on from 1925, ushering back into being the sepia bodies buried alive.
‘Get up!’ I’ll shout, and they’ll come sleepily out
The time nan knitted her a swimming costume and it dangled ’round her knees
The time she met Bert, church choir at fifteen,
To motherhood, and childhood, and all in between.
I’d wipe the milk from her eyes, line up all the synapses like fridge magnets
and kiss the transmitters on their rosy cheeks like newborn baby girls
make them giggle and wiggle like tipsy jelly sweet swirls
kneel down and whisper to the receptors, (you’ve got to make them receptive somehow):
please take your tablets, I’ll say
please eat your toast.
please drink your coffee i’ll say as they chant
let go, let go, let go.
The attic 