daughters think they are sky.
They bust clouds while their daddy is away.
We fall about to karaoke and philosophy.
At night, the moth of my mother powders the pane.
The daughters discover Lycra.
They`re running with sunny lungs.
They cannot see me. I`m in a valley
far away, heavy with edgy medals.
When they throw their shoes into the lake
I go yay yo with breath that rasps and peeps.
The art of disappearing comes home.
The day they know womens` work I will be sky.
Sandra Tappenden
Illustration Nick Victor