she pulls in her legs to cross
Indian style
beneath her thighs,
cold feet nuzzling the warm blanket,
the tangled seat she sits on.
pen in hand
tapping impatiently against
porcelain veneers but
the crinkle cornered page in front of her
stays empty; fresh.
it's been hours of repositioning
half eaten snacks and
elephant naps
but not a single letter has been
loved enough to write down.
perhaps when she has learnt distance
and the life she lives isn't
what bleeds onto the white of
her notebook
the words will come. |