cy mba l s
2 021 : met hod a nd mad nes s
Turn Left Turn left, no right to the playground and see the small child with the round haircut, swinging and screaming until she touches the sky. Look up to the clouds where frozen water falls, each raindrop a different shape. One sets right on her face, right on the bridge of her nose, the place where her father used to brush until she closed her eyes. Blink and see a young girl, with a dash of pink in her brown hair, thrusting her red hands into her pockets to warm them, tilting her face, straight to the heavens, waiting for a fat raindrop to land on in just the right place. – Lily Matthews, X: poetry
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