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JILLIAN PATTINSON
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child
-
- squatting
- half-naked in a rock-pool, you push back
- your too-long fringe, brow
- wrinkling
- over the placement of shell shards around
the anemone,
- as if the orbit of each named
constellation
- relies on this precision. In a world
- where the lift of a butterfly’s wing
- blows typhoons over low-lying islands,
- and one man’s name
- signifies the death of millions,
- perhaps you are, as you seem,
- at the heart of it—damp pink
- splay of your nubby hands the crux,
around which
- the tides, tectonic plates
- and galaxies
- spin.
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