if i sift with my fingers
through fabrics, not
look away, be
domestic
lift and carry the
weight of old skin
before it can rise
from the floorboards
arrive in one piece
and then
stay
grow a garden to nowhere at all
beneath a white flame
with my mother,
her mother,
dig for
reflections
we’ve buried
for years in the sand
what’s left is a body,
skin tethered to bones,
grown but from
nothing
at all:
the
small of
my back
just a space
for your hand
to announce
when it wants to be heard
these words by jesslyn delia smith were inspired by the art of Pasha Bumazhniy
wordandcolour 