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de Rosalie Cunningham

Each night I rewrite your blueprints
Time has webbed a silky haze over my eyes
And so the truth is
Elasticated for extra comfort

Still I ache for juvenilia
Juvenilia, she haunts me
A naive poem
A dusty bear
Another trinket to adorn me
With an army of talismen I run

Stories of number 149
That are read to me at bedtime by my mind
Plays of phantasmagoria
On the oscillating walls and doors that
When you’re only four foot four
Are banquet halls and dungeon corridors

Pedalling to fly
A strange momentum I’ve forgotten
And so now I
A flightless bird anchored to land
Have got to get on with a show I never auditioned for
When can I go home?

Stories of number 149
That are read to me at bedtime by my mind
Plays of phantasmagoria
On the oscillating walls and doors that
When you’re only four foot four
Are banquet halls and dungeon corridors

Children playing in street at the 149
Songs are playing in the kitchen at the 149
Oh at the 149

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