KnivesknivesMy life through the glass,a million pieces scattered (splinters in my thumbs)A spectrum (colours of fear)Forced through me like knives.Here, smoke and doubt intersects false light.A journey queued. Where I had begun.This time aloneWhat am I fighting for?
An owlWhen I was younger We moved into the new housemy father built.In the evening an owl flew in.With heavy wingsit threatened us,cutting through the darkwith hardly any room for flight.My sister and Iheld our breathand played dead until my father came home.When he saw us he laughedwhile we lay stilland then opened all the windowsto let it fly out.