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
22 replies on “Perpetually a child”
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