Sunday, September 12, 2010


Category: Issue 20

My fingers slipped over the clay,
Quick and eager.
At twelve, a girl still remembers
The joys of mud and earthworms
And the clay smelled fresh,
Like forked up soil, after the rain.

I gave him an Easter Island shape
And a hairstyle borrowed from the boys in my class.
I textured the top
And the back of his head
By repeated stabbing with a toothpick.
I gave him a little snub nose
And a grin/snarl, showing teeth
And a fairly severe underbite.
I made his eyebrows wriggle like eels,
Angry or inquisitive,
On his narrow streak of forehead.
I denied him eyes;
Just stuck two fingers in for sockets.
I painted him red and green, like a twisted Christmas;
Gave him scarlet stripes of war-paint
And a dead-grass-coloured chin
That stood out, all defiant.

And there he was:
My sticky, savage little nightmare.
I thought him rather lovely
And named him Tom.

Posted by Cora Broomfield on 09/12 at 05:46 PM | Permalink
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