and in that last moment
the dead shrug, shake
off their boots, shuffle off
jackets and shirts,

Children in care do not have much of a voice, they often accept whatever is given and do not dare to speak up.

Are these the words you want me to say
about how my day became a raging river
crashing through my bones?

My room is infested with bedbugs
I’m covered in bites, not love bites

I want to borrow gods
(as Adrienne does,
though she knew better)
their sad logic
their templates

Turn the mud. Bo Peep’s head tumbles out,
wide-eyed, mouth a little open.

you are the shadow slipping through the mirror