You, tiny you.
Sweet, fat nephew.
Milk slips to your chin and you
shuffle me, make me snuggly,
your elbows and fists
kneading
like insistent kitten mittens.
You and me, we are We;
struggling, in the folds of dark,
blinking, peeping.
Stunned bats.
Cane chair criss-crosses
litter my arms and I cringe
but don't shift.
As you fight sleep
I twist kiss curls
'round my ring finger and weep.
Life is about to run into this room,
put on the mask of your parents,
grab your small skull
and dash it on the walls,
goring the beach balls, teddy bears
and all the years unspun.
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