As I pluck the child from the air.
Your face is wet, she says. She is white teeth,
and fever, the tapestry that is made of cloud.
She doesn’t understand the word blaxploitation.
Her hair is egg shampoo. She doesn’t eat carrots.
She prefers chicken instead. Her body is the
mountain light in summer. Her laughter is a bird,
a horse, a hot South African garden. She
squawks like a chicken and flaps her arms.
Her eyes watch me like a deer in the headlights
of an oncoming vehicle. Her fingers smell as sweet
as toffee. Almond milk on her breath. I give her
honey to eat and pour coca cola in a shot glass for her.
She looks on as my mother puts on sunset pink lipstick
and peacock-blue eyeshadow. She experiments.
She’s the stars in the palimpsest of the night sky.
She tells me sometimes she feels sadness when I
don’t want to play with her. I wonder if her life
will be as bittersweet as mine has been.
Issue Seven – Abigail George
