I will be 11 years old and the skin on my cheek
will dissolve like butter in the bottom of a soup
pan. Grandma will be there, scouring brush hair,
gently simmered leek palms, softened
potato eyes. The next time I fall over
I will be 18 years old and I will enjoy it
and the next time I fall over I will be 25 years old
and the world will hang from a wooden beam
and the next time I fall over I will be 28 years old
and my brain will land in a set of open ears
and the next time I fall over I will be you
and my mouth will be wood chips
and my chin will quiver and I will stand
like I was born standing. I will try again
and I will keep falling.

© Carl Burkitt 2022