The sparrow feather steeps a deep pink tea.
(It's rotten with germs. I found it at the park)
I found a book in Father's attic which had become
a feast for bookworms.
Does the sun make a certain type of dessert. I thought
of the yolk of a sugared egg. Pink clumps of my hair
falling out in the attic. Pink clumps of my hair
in a silver locket.
I do not know if brother has changed. It is not
my business. He is still brother.
There are holes in the soft wooden walls in the attic.
There are holes through which I have seen Father's eye.
I drop the pan again cooking the eggs.
Under my pillow, yellow clumps of doll hair.
@mykenbomb commissioned this poem from me, and after I sent it to them, they asked me to post it so they could reblog it!!
as an illustrator I really admire, it was an honor to write for them, and this prompt was extremely fun and stimulating to work with! thank you very much!