Heather Lazarus

She’s singing again,
hand wrapped round
the green jump-rope handle,
as I hide
head tucked round
the doorframe.

That twinkle
that certainty
of pumpkins to carriages
as she dances
herself older

would vanish
if she knew
she was in view
of the great party-
pooper.

I’m not sure
when my warts came,
how I learned to crouch
and wait, sticky-tongued,
for movement.

I scuttle back down the hall
to dishes and dinner
wishing once again
for that old tingle
for that wing-tickle
of the could,
of the not yet.