by Dave

She told me
in dolce voice
of  jungle folks
that peel bananas
with their toes.

As if feet and soles
were the most important
thing in her world.

Thumbs and digits
willow wands
and shoes, white gloves
on magicians hands.

At that singular second,
her tongue flicked,
tasting words that
pleased her.

Drinking sound and songs,
that tickled tiny ears.

All words
held starlight,
the burs and vowels
she rolled around
the buckle of
milk chocolate cheeks.

She walked
on ink stained hands
and tippy toes
leaving rows
of prose and poems

Cloud, cloud, cloud
repeated, soft and loud
seven days a week.
A spell and recipe
that called down
thunder showers.

At four years old
she shamed laureates.
I gave her books
to gird her muse
from decay


-Dave Kavanagh


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