Hannah

  Sometimes I smooth out my apron

  against my legs. Good legs. Strong legs.

  Or I stare at it as it flaps in the wind on the line.

  Sometimes I stare at a tile caught by the sun

  

  or I experiment: pull a face, play dead, pull

  a face, play dead, face out the mirror

  that is best at stillness. I look down

  then up very suddenly, trying to catch

  

  the angel behind me, slipping out

  of the frame. Why would the angel

  be behind me? I ball my fist

  and my nieces and nephews

  

  -so many- hand me sprays

  from the garden. Is this news?

  A bird almost lands on my head.

  I tuck in the stray hairs.

  

  I close my eyes and clench myself.

  Yawn with the tension of holding

  everything shut. There! Like a nut

  popping out of a shell, I am gone

  

  he is there, for a second, my son,

  my Samuel. Sometimes

  you have to be

  what you want.

  

  © David Kinloch, 2011