The slip
Six months after the first skeleton
appeared we are used to the slip
between the plate and the mouth,
my daughter’s bargains against food.
Her eyes weigh the fat content used
or imposed in water, movement, air.
She is climbing the mast of a ship
none of us can steer.
It is this one small thing she wants:
not to change, or only to change
on her own terms, badly.
I spoon each mouthful myself,
attempt to navigate her closed lips,
try not to notice the looseness
of my grip, the thinness of the skin
on my own wrist.
Runner up, Mslexia Poetry Competition 2007
