i was smaller then; i loved the warmth
of his corduroy trousers and the way his
stubble gently scraped against my cheek
as he leant down to tell me a secret.
sweet tobacco hung thick, sticky in the
evening air and always the flash of his
pocketknife, always whittling, whittling.

the giraffe was my favourite with its
neck growing longer and thinner each
night, knobby knees, awkward the way i
still am but growing graceful under his
touch. he'd grin as he told me "i didn't
create the giraffe -- in order to find
it, you just have to keep whittling,
always keep whittling away".

in order to find myself, i just have to
keep whittling, whittling away. the
giraffe, dotted with tawny yellows and
browns by arthritic fingers lies snapped
at the neck on my bedside table. circle
its abdomen with my forefinger and thumb,
tail turned to dust and the paint chipping.

nothing in excess, nothing unnecessary.
i have learned this lesson now. my speech
became clipped, fragile, lost in the wind.
nothing extraneous, the word became flesh
and now i am carving myself down, exposing
bone, sinew, watching as the neck lengthens
and thins. in dreams i am always running
when my ankles snap, leaving me weightless
but shattered, all colour gone and yet,
still whittling, whittling myself away.

11/06/2008

Posted on 11/06/2008
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