This poem is a spell
scrambles on the floor.
she plays with tupperware shapes,
banging the star into its container,
enjoying the bright colours,
the texture of unmoving plastic,
as she puts them in her curious mouth.
she lunges for wooden blocks.
The colours less bright than tupperware,
but still she bangs away,
she likes the sound, the clatter,
as a castle crumbles.
she grabs at plastic letters
her aunt has positioned on the fridge,
knowing these are the things in her books.
She is greedy for them,
she is learning,
the letters are easy.
to be herself,
not easy at all.
I am her aunt,
the girl who loved spells,
spelling, mainlining words,
like others took drugs.
Will she be a mother
closed or closeted
in a room
or without a view.
I do not pray
But still I wonder
What is the point?
How do we learn to spell?
Why, when a wordsmith mentions of
mum, dad, anna, hannah,
did you know they all are palindromes?
a nervous giggle might transpire,
an irritated yawn,
why – when words should inspire!
This is my spell’s point.
We have replaced the magma of wonderment;
knowledge has fallen to googling
We have forgotten the ancient spells.
In my bone marrow I know words fail
Yet some have depth, resonance, truth.
I wish to use my body as a mouth
For my niece,
for all children who embrace technology,
aware of words,
succumbing to their power.
Indeed, cleaving for awareness
and a conscience,
this poem is a spell