The moon held you in her sloping milk sling
Tired, eyes obscured, body burdensome
You were rocked and swayed to the clink of the silver
As she carried you to the basket of frills and silk.
Soundless, dreamless, who knows?
Perhaps you did remember the shaking bough,
Quivering and red with a fevered pallor
and the beating taste of your life was granted
Living in a box, a shoe
box. Made for feet and not hands.
For the clumsy, not the dainty.
I could make holes to breathe
but instead I suck the corners at the top
as though dislodging the lid would be more honest.
A finger here, a finger there.
Ivory cased in pink cased in brown,
jaundiced by a lack of sunlight.
I’m not tall enough to touch the ceiling, as flimsy as it is.
But I keep trying.
I’m not a sack of bones for nothing, these feet
There’s someone else here, no doubt.
She has a terrible habit of running behind
me and jamming into my heels whenever I look for her.
Haven’t seen her yet, but will soon.
I asked her how she got here and she stayed
So we have that in common, I know.
Evasive, and evasive.
I’ve planned my big
The lid is out of the question, she won’t help and I can’t jump anymore.
Only slither and push.
Next time it rains, I’ll roll against the sides.
Inhale and spit the cardboard pulp,
biting my way to the light (or dark) (light) chasm of release,
as welcome as the swell of sirens on a babe’s lips.
It’s not rained for a long time,
or maybe it rained yesterday.
I slept on my back, then.
Born and raised in Glasgow, Ellis Victoria is a Law Masters student working and studying in London. She spends her free time getting lost in pretty words and Earl Grey tea, sometimes at the same time.