They call it slipping between the sheets
Like a knife between the envelope
- The ink still dries.
This is not it
For it occurs just like the alumni book
I’m slotted through, the slice
Of my smile within a photograph
Since being a child
A sob, sob, sob
Of kidishness within an adults voice
Indulged, within a culture coaxed
Of classical music, broadsheet, and glossy mags.
Adolescence gleans a greasy smoke
Which wagers paper wafer thin
I speak as if with impediment
Slipped into sheets just like a crease.
For propped and pinned I form a frame
About the paging of a skin
At one glance people see inheritance
On another, vanity
And another, sin.
Still between the sheets I slip
The sweat puddles and the body breaks
In its instinctive shriek for sleep
My mouth becomes the title page.
It is not kissable or round
But an incision interrupting font
And so I slip between the sheets
And know what means to lie alone.
For others I have let turn on me
Others shred me down to size
Clutched guiltily under jackets, skirts
Like the child at the wedding throwing rice
There is eternal scattering
‘Recycling’ like my mother aid
That I live between the night
Like the sheet between the body and the bed.