Grandmother make-believed me in wishes
Decided just how many days and nights
the wishbone needed.
Like the fatness of Hansel’s finger,
she knew when it was ready.
Salvaged from a carcass well-stripped of real
in her airing cupboard,
on wooden slats
high enough
to be out of reach,
hidden between crisply-folded
lavender-scented linen.
That cupboard itself, became important –
a cage for dreams and days,
of, how-to-determine
which wish
mattered most.
TRACEY PETERSON
Christchurch NZ
