Perpetually a child

Blueberry jelly,

I love January mornings.

Waking up to the true blue denim

of a sky, nothing more than stitched fabric, 

a run in a seam

Gingham wallpaper peels like oranges, 

and my sensitivity is fragile and

exposed raw skin under

makeup. By the pound

cake with molded crust

the stovetop screams

with life. The butter cascades over a hot pan. 

My morning coffee is just shy 

of a gunshot, the stimulus slithers,

Nerves cooled like white hot iron and steamed.

To the side door in the mudroom, 

to my dreams stacked up in the library,

to the tumble of dusted figurines

that are dressed in eclectic fabrics, 

sitting for a tea party and no place 

for the frivolity of anything important. 

Silence the whip’s crack, 

the flick of it broke 

the glass of the front door 

as I glided through. 

The chariot of my dreams

slid over slick oil 

disguised like freedom.

Victoria Wan, ’25