When I woke, you were sleeping,
turned at an angle that made you headless,
tucked into your tortoiseshell.
Your hands clutched your sides
as though, if you let go,
you might just lose yourself.
I wanted to uncurl you from the womb,
and take your hand like a babe’s.
I’ve got it in my head that I could show you
how we can walk upright,
without falling off the edge of the earth.

Zenobia Frost
Published in Bizoo (2006)


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