Little Spines
In the garden I hear
children screaming.
I walk through rooms
of my house. A child
hangs from the drawing
room ceiling.
I cut her down before bed.
By morning more hang in
their place.
When I slice sandwiches
for small mouths delicate
child fingers lie beside the knife.
In the noise of the water spout
people are crying. They call and call
for help to be saved. I cannot tell
them anything, I cannot name them.
There are toe nails
between my sheets. They prickle
my flash while I sleep.
Faces in the bathroom mirror
in the car window when I cross
with my children in hand.
Wells are being dug in the garden
at night men with spades, lean over
call for the lost to be recovered.
Tell me to be careful.
Susan Bazett