There is in my mind

a child who skips pebbles

across the ripples of my imagination


She is barefoot and tanned

smelling of summer woven in long blades of grass


            when she is bored

            she makes paintings

            from crocus petals and autumn leaves


     but sometimes

on rainy days

                        she holds tantrums

and gives me headaches



There is a woman in my mind

who sleeps under piles of

old newspapers


Her skin


                         from her jowls



She wears a rough coat

drinks too much,



but sometimes,

        she knows how to sing children to sleep



- Gillian Massel