One. Stand in a glass dolls house. Turn
the key and a musical box opens.
Puppets in spiral – long days of grass.
Two. Walk to the top of a hill, watch over
those awoken by star lights. When we sing,
we do not use words.
Three. Hold tight on to the back of
a minotaur; in the labyrinth we guard
the source of our rivers.
Four. Swimming lessons. Breathing
practice for later life. Check
the sea level at regular intervals.
Five. Decide that the earliest memory is
a feeling. Someone passed it onto us
by accident. It still matters.
Six. Find a safe place, give it a nickname
or at least get a colour to fit with
the things we tell ourselves.
Seven. Pull a curtain over the ruins of
here. Convince ourselves: all we need
is just round the corner.
Eight. Travel by car, boat, bus;
the motion sickness for changing
our minds always at the last minute.
Nine. Count empty chairs at departure
gates. Fold the rest of the day
in half then gift it to strangers.
Ten. Arrivals happen when there is
no luggage left to pick up. All forgiven
out of necessity.
Eleven. The railway platform keeps
changing numbers. Watch closely
notice boards in an antechamber.
Twelve. Rush out in yesterday’s clothes,
fill up the rooms in our heart
with what is to come.
© Maria Stadnicka and Andrew Morrison
Picture Nick Victor