(i)

In the time it takes to switch on the AC and close the drapes, two green lizards with black stripes run across the black-top driveway, disappearing into the rock wall.

Their passing footprints in dust are soon erased by the brittle winds.

(ii)

I hit a bird with a car on the way to the hardware store – thwack!

Or it hit me; I had the right of way; it flew into my path; neither of us could change our trajectory.

I reach the store. All evidence has dried and flaked off, ground to dust in my wake.

I load the AC into the trunk and wipe my hands on my jeans.

(iii)

Little feet dance with anticipation, then surge forward, landing a swift kick.

The Lego figurine shatters, flying through the air.

Take that Godzilla! I exclaim.

Auntie, that’s an acrocanthosaurus.

I stand corrected by a tiny lisp.

My sweaty knees grind plastic fragments deep into the carpet.

(iv)

It rains for the last time as I wash the windows. Teetering on the end of a pole, I scrape the years’s soot.

Distorted clouds provide little relief against the compounding heat, trapped in shimmering layers of grey.

A drop falls on my head; I brush it away.

My hand leaves a white streak on the windowpane.

I scrub hard; it smears into the grooved surface.

I’m half-finished, half-drawn

up into sharp things

stained with the softness of pastel

that bruise me

into this body.

I’m a recollection, half-made

up in someone’s head,

blurry tinged memories

of pencil-dull

sensations.

I’m hiding, half-bent

up inside splotchy skin

stretching

over the hills and valleys

of knuckle and bone

that twitch with life

like a thing trying to hang

on before death.

I’m stunted, half-grown

up, inching towards

an inkling of wholeness

that doesn’t cut

or smear

when I turn.