Your mother’s caravan rolls on all feathers incense smoke and mirrors; lies begin as tiny butterflies concentrated colour blips set to take flight. See them flapping now in the twists and eddies of her momentum tossed with a flourish into the slipstream rose petals following and scented oils ringing water and music like dawn draped innocently on day. Look at the seams where the stitching frayed loosens and gives up its secrets. Peering you will see a fisted tight faced little girl whose disappointment grew like Max’s forest without the ocean or the boat for return. She remains there with the beasts she made and her imagined powers. All is still at her command, frozen world of forms none living, she dances, spins, casting throws up her hands to where she believes the sun and moon watch with the universe in tow. Broken thing, were she not a spider there’d be pity.


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