The Tree House

br /> "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">

The Tree House

I have stuck a stone up my nose, Mother.
No bigger than my nail; no greater
than the distance between us now.
I can smell the fresh bread dough on your hands,
the faint loving caress of grilled cheese on an enamel plate,
soft, round calluses on the tips of your fingers; pick
and probe warm flesh in my nostrils. Your friend says -

That kids will be kids. I have never ridden a bike, thrown
water bombs, played knock-a-door run or swung high
over the crevice behind our house. Only defying gravity
with a dog chewed branch and plastic twined rope between
my hands and buttocks. She drives her little finger in;
I watch the wooden stag on the fireplace;
one antler shorter than the other, broken

By the dog's burnt tail, in turn my sister broke
the dog's nose with a wooden spoon.
It always comes back to trees in this family.
She screams at her friend - I am told
she is the cat's mother. So I am a son of cat
and not from under a gooseberry bush
or cabbage as my Dad told me.

You're pulling your hair out - which is amazing as you
keep bees within that hive. I sneeze; it is early summer,
a mixture of pollen and motes exit with the stone.
Arguing now, you didn't see it.
Too busy wearing plaid slacks and your friend in checks.
Chess or draughts; a game
I'm always doomed to lose with you.

In my hand, small and black, pitted
skin and snot; a little pink smear in my palm,
I close my hand, tight around it, as you
attempt to be the first woman to fold time and
nostrils back over her child's head.
I wonder about the Guinness Books or Records entry
and that lovely Roy Castle, who you adore.

You will be disappointed when Noris McWhirter
shows up with his stop watch, and forgets to wipe
his shoes in the vestibule. As you force him
to donkey stone the front step and
ewbank the hall in under
twenty seconds
in an attempt to break your world record.

I have stuck a stone up my nose, Mother.
No bigger than the words you say; I can't see it.
Your personal mantra of fear throughout my childhood,
I hold it all in the palm of my hand; where is it?
No greater than the distance between my fingers, that
open now, like a fragile and frozen flower,
as you look down, and all hell breaks lose.