Glue. 

 

I am no more than a blade of grass

Still,  I forgot how precious

The kiss from the morning dew

Could be

 

I thought myself above the fly

Even laughed at the suggestion

That I could die

One day, maybe …

 

Instead I just swatted the fly

And pissed on the grass

That grew just for me

Waiting for me to die

 

I imagined myself 

Bigger than the moon

Thought I could survive 

The monsoon

 

I did, for a short time

But then the tide changed

And engulfed me

Took me for silt

 

I left words

Crotcheted into quilts

Clues

On what not to do

 

Nobody listened

Just like me

They dissolved

In their own glue. 

Clare Kinnaird, 2024.