Janet Leigh

Janet Leigh

After church I cartwheeled in the salty
dark and landed fist-first in the soft
earth of the rosebed. Upright, I looked,

and on my wrist beneath the drumstick of
my thumb there was a pool of black, a slick.
I showed my dad who deep in chat with a

pharmacist, a Mr White, said 'it's a cut, it
must have been a thorn or glass'. I thought it
might be oil or ink but in the limelight of the

chemist's I waxed sick and felt I might
pass out, swimming in pink, but he dressed
the nick and wiped away the red. I can still

see the stripe under years of skin, still hear
the bell and the key as we left and Mr White
locked up the shop; still taste the lollipop.