POETRY
      Jillian Pattinson — '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.