When it rains…

Mama said,
make something.

My face is wet;
does that count?

Use up the scraps, she said.

I look at what is left.

I drag a nail
across a love note
and blink –

'will never'
Such a positive negative…

I make a boat;

inked words are spliced by the prow,
and the smear of
‘leave you’ jeers at me;
it’s what you wrote.
What you did.

I stroke thin paper
and feel the sheen
of newborn skin.

When it rains…

A family of four
as tall as the sun:
stick limbs and scribbled hair
in pastel shades,
with curved smiles deep enough
to cup infinite happiness.

But they are wax.
Icarus flew too close to the sun.

I fold walls at torn edges
to make them stand on end.
The concept is flimsy.
They fall flat
and my breath wafts them away.

I measure, score and bend,
fashioning birthday cards
into tiny houses I can hold.

Almost perfect,
but no windows.
Don’t look in.

There are sharp corners
to their weightlessness
and they pock my palms
like driven nails.

When it rains…

I daub glue onto brown paper,
wrapping paper,
postcards and party hats,
layer upon layer,
corrugating,
cushioning,
hiding…
something.

I am marked by paper cuts,
yet another smarting tally.
Tiny incisors graze
as I tear sandpaper
and scrunch
the scraps I have left.

Perhaps I can make flowers.

And finally,
a snapshot.
I prop it
temporarily
then punch it into confetti.