two hundred and seven words. 5

by kvennarad

2075Changes may come, may already have come, may be on the way as she breathes in: such are her thoughts as she melts wax crayons on the hot hood of an electric fire, allowing pools of blood, blackcurrant, and blue to run, abut, vie, and harden as she switches off and cools their platform; she tests one with her finger, raises a peak, waits, tries another, leaves a print, waits, touches another and finds only a smooth shape – she does not know the word ‘meniscus’ so has nothing to compare it with, it is something all of its own – prizes it away with a fingernail and gasps as it breaks, looks long at the last roundel of her favourite colour, thinks of flavours, again draws the nail under it to lift off perfection, to bring it to her lip, to feel the contradiction of stillness and (yet) texture, this child who walks to school deep in the melt of her own mind has learned the way she will, being spared the perils of infancy, one day smithy her poetry; of such small heating and cooling are words, of such little hammering and shaping, of such experimental lifting, sometimes breaking apart, but now to be annealed, shaped, sharpened


jupiter©Marie Marshall