About her person, by Lily Page
She’s fallen asleep last again
cheap plastic hairbrush halfway down hair
thwarted at the final hurdle
tangled headphones still jammed in
the soft pink shell of her ears
clothes that smell of fresh air and wet pavements
crumpled on the floor, hansel and gretel trailed
door to bed, in the order they were removed
her jacket pocket, £2.80 in silver
a travel card eleven days from expiration
a fluffy piece of chewing gum
foldout bedside table, still missing three screws
with scrunched tissues that occasionally
fall and drift soundlessly to the carpet
on the edge, the verge, the precipice
a half empty bottle of water
a half finished notebook of scrawl
a half burned stick of incense
most things fallen between the cracks;
under the dresser, in the space between the mattress and
the headboard, at the bottom of that drawer,
pink plastic lighter, polaroids and paper clips bent out of shape
worry dolls, cough sweet wrappers, a biro running out
sequins and buttons and a mood ring stuck on blue
a small box full of baby teeth, porcelain fragile, baby bird delicate
funny things take priority here, in pride of place,
a mantlepiece jam jar, housing a bunch of flowers,
dead as anything, dry as anything
stolen as something from the table of a stranger’s wedding
don’t touch them, she’ll notice
