Language is her caravan
Frosty, green through gray rising steeply,
top of the bank a big top, red with a sign,
misty, fantastical on the walk to school.
“My sister can’ t express herself properly.
Imagine if those performers
were stuck in their caravans
forever. If round the back of the big top
the doors were locked. That’ s her.
She’ s a trapeze artist, lion tamer,
cramped clean-faced clown
drinking tea, practicing tricks,
movement through frosted windows.
Language is her caravan on bricks,
with tiny little windows in.”