Till you get the shape right

Will,
who won first prize for drawing portaits with eyebrows
said it first,
'your knee folded up looks like a vagina.'
then watching the school nativity in church
he held my hand.

My eyes smarted from the dirty pews,
I think he thought I cried for him
and watched my eyebrows for wedding signals.

In orchestra I held my flute out like a passport
and asked the big girls
'can you play top C?'
I learnt on a milk bottle
till I got the perfect squashed D.

The last day before summer
and still sulking,
my hands bored and ficketing found the video machine
with its open jar jaw
not made for fingers,
it reminded with a rash of snow.

At secondary,
in the library,
annoying 'Miss' by making my mark with,
the clastonet stapler under the table.

Chris took me to the nurse
finger fused to my thigh,
remarking on how close the semblance
of a folded knee to a vagina.