Perfectly inserting a wound into the kid
The kid is ok, but she
She is never completely an adult, and the forgery
Becomes easier with time

She rests her arms, then hides them, puts them in her pocket
How to stand as a woman?
Without the comfort of the hat, or the skirt
And all the kids playing and screaming in the backyard
They look at her suspiciously
She’s hiding and they’re seeking

“When the flood happens respect it,” he says.
She sees the flood
She respects it
But the flood has no regard for her
The kids have no regard for the flood
The kids want to play
And all the dams she makes
These damned dams have nothing on them

It’s an on going migraine
You mean migrate?
No, migraine:
The over sensitivity to light, sound, and colour
The ‘unbearable lightness of being’
The inherent obligation to live
And the games that do not get old
Even as you age

And so the knife
Slick, shiny and perfectly sharpened
Erect and handled
It’s the knife, it’s always been
About the silent K
Kids never grow up
They just become quiet.