The fingers and thumb on his left hand
are up as high as his arm will let them.
His right forefinger joins them.
One and five make six, he says,
for the first time since his muscles were
given blood and his teeth discovered
they can do more than eat.
Well done, I say.
What does well done mean? he says.
I look at the hairs that have grown
out of the crown on his head,
the way they lift and bend and fall
like waves, how his eyes know
to blink when the sun gets in,
the way his skin wears the world
like a reflection.
It means good job, he interupts.
Like how one and five make six.

© Carl Burkitt 2023