AIMEE TACON

beneath my woman-shaped coat lives a girl
you met her, once – you laid beside her on the floor
she’d been sleeping, but you woke her, and she’s not rested since.

she’s an angry girl, the one who lives in my coat
she resents you, I think, for speaking hope into existence
she’s made of pride, and cries justice! like a child.

to a child, kindness is unnecessary
politeness is obtuse
to youth, the most unforgivable thing you can be is a liar
and, oh, my love, how you have lied.

dishonesty stains your lips, a sticky sweet wine best cleaned with kisses
an acquired taste, addictive and sour
but my girl (you know, the one who lives in my coat) – she doesn’t like the flavour.

when you left, I had thought she might return to her slumber
go back inside, and wait for the next –

but you took my coat. my woman-shaped coat?
you took it with you, and now I have nothing to wear.

her shoulders are bare, and I have nothing to wrap her in
she has no place of her own, and that little girl grows colder by the day
her messy laugh has been splintered, hollow and shivering,

quieter, quieter,

a lullaby:

“her eyes are open, but she is not awake
she sees it pass, but does not move to take
a hold of the threads, unwoven, unbound,
she cannot grow a new coat, by body or ground.

a girl made of sand and a girl made of soil
a boy made of water and a boy made of oil
a screaming so loud, a wailing so deep
for wool and for dye, the child slaughters sheep.”