Mama said,

make something.

 

My face is wet;

does that count?

 

Use up the scraps, she said.

 

I look at what is left.

 

I drag a nail

across a love note

and blink –

 

 ‘will never’

Such a positive negative…

 

I make a boat;

 

inked words are spliced by the prow,

and the smear of

 ‘leave you’ jeers at me;

it’s what you wrote.

What you did.

 

I stroke thin paper

and feel the sheen

of newborn skin.

 

A family of four

as tall as the sun:

stick limbs and scribbled hair

in pastel shades,

with curved smiles deep enough

to cup infinite happiness.

 

But they are wax.

Icarus flew too close to the sun.

 

I fold walls at torn edges

to make them stand on end.

The concept is flimsy.

They fall flat

and my breath wafts them away.

 

I measure, score and bend,

fashioning birthday cards

into tiny houses I can hold.

 

Almost perfect,

but no windows.

Don’t look in.

 

There are sharp corners

to their weightlessness

and they pock my palms

like driven nails.

 

I daub glue onto brown paper,

wrapping paper,

postcards and party hats,

layer upon layer,

corrugating,

cushioning,

hiding…

something.

 

I am marked by papercuts,

yet another smarting tally.

Tiny incisors graze

as I tear sandpaper

and scrunch

the scraps I have left.

 

Perhaps I can make flowers.

 

And finally,

a snapshot.

I prop it

temporarily

then punch it into confetti.