My daughter stands in her pyjamas
singing to the cat.
Her pale ankles calling to me
winking and bobbing under frayed hems.
She stands in the light of the fridge
breathing the glow to feed her hungry bones
Last night I burned her sleeping skin with whispers
to disarm the velocity of her growth
that pushes her too fast upwards.
“still” “slow” I whispered into her pale hair.
Like a seedling without light
your stature pulls you way from us.
Lengthening your marrow will not journey you from pain.
Stay with your father’s degeneration
and know love lives not in the physical.
Pen Reid, Poet of the Month February 2016