The supper mumbles with a puff of
steam
lisped from the thin lip of a trembling saucepan lid.
On the draining board a peeled and crumpled rabbit skin,
on a plate the rabbit joints have the purple tint of
musculature
when stripped to the naked meat.
Ticking on the chipped enamel of the gas stove
onions seek translucence in butter scurf
and carrots have their orange fixed
a deeper cochineal than ever,
and the thick air is crushed up
congealing in tears on the ceramics.
We children play at ghosts in the shed,
and there is a witch in the cupboard near the Rayburn
puts mandragora dumplings in the stew,
puffed and mottled,
the buttercup is yellow on my chin,
so I'll wet the bed.
Today we all wear cherry sprigs for earrings.
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