Never knew a phenomenal- birth of river, high tideway of starting a poem,

I might as well stick to the personal and remember to draw a line, skin-deep scab-line

Between me and death wounds, outside.

On the family stage, around the tea table, with grandmother kneading dough,

I am quick to pour the water, it gives me immense joy,

Of being the family child, again.

But blue-grey discomfort and downward eyes when anecdotes stinking of baby milk breath,

Are served with tea too sweet.

Like when you peel the dead skin off a scab (again)

Too quick, too sweet,

Pink to touch, shy beneath it.

Being at the centre makes me self-feel, self-peel brightly.

Tea talk should not delve mirror deep, of unsure only child.

When it shifts to policy making, outside four, five-ten walls,

Comfortably placed on coasters,

I can put on an adult voice,

To opine,

(We are middle-placed, in pink comfort place)

Smile and not twist down self-spirals

(Your mother was this, that

Your mother was…)

Dog piss smarts the upturned nose with air thicker than blood,

Up here in the family home,

And the personal cuts through

Leaving no space for the other.

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