Deborah Harvey
A family history of refractive errors
Tell me about your mother
the therapist said
and I stared at the floor, unsure how to start
all I could see was the grain of her skin
the knot of her nose, cherry pink
lipstick smeared on a tooth
It took me years to look past the wood, focus on tree
Now I’ve climbed to the top to take in the view
only to spot our distance
running at twice the speed of silence
over the clouded horizon
Is our gap wide enough now?
If I dress in hi-vis and wave both my arms
do you think you might see me?