147 Days

Sophia Haydon-Khan

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Coated in mauve and pale yellow, we climbed hills near our house with abandon,

We painted simple pictures, 

Ones of moons and stars and oceans and sunsets. 

Creeping vines she scribbled between the lines of her notebooks

Which later crept into my own, 

 

Dimples and pancake mornings,

Chocolate eggs and the smell of freshly opened suitcases, 

Her messily knotted hijab, wavering prayer, 

Watercolor bookmarks and hot glue burns, 

 

In December we painted over it all with white primer,

Covered up the holes where my thumb tacks had been,

Stickers I couldn’t pick off, 

We painted over the black and white kittens, 

and the spice tin I wasn’t allowed to touch, 

 

With broad strokes the house became unkind, 

and the marble grew colder underfoot, 

The overgrown garden became sinister, 

and loomed at my bedroom window, 

Fanged and clawed. 

 

I feel 

dim

 

Half of me

none of me

all of me.

 

My mother had a baby two days ago, 

My mother had a baby five years ago, 

My mother had a baby seventeen years ago, 

 

Earth seems to turn a little faster every year,

By the time a new one comes along I’m still spinning from the last one, 

When she holds me it spins 

just a little slower