He only talks to toys – said the teacher
of the boy with hair like an upside down bowl
and cheeks like Shingo pears,
wearing shoes while others run barefoot
holding a plastic toy while the rest
brandish frogs, or grasshoppers.
i want to say – I too know
how the darkness at the centre
of the glittering story
tosses its whispered filaments
across bruised shadows of years
to bind your limbs
how silken cobwebs entwine your throat,
entrapping words in stitchery,
while you stare, helpless.
But I cannot speak your language
that flows like the sparkling stream
I press a star-shaped sticker
upon his breast pocket. He looks up.
i remember, once, a star
shining with remembered light
fell from black sky
into my outstretched hand.