Jump three paving stones. Neat Neapolitan for tea. Throw

a stick in the air, touch that branch of silver birch, dangle

loose limbed from monkey bars, biceps flames. Run the gauntlet

rose garden holding breath until my lungs are geysers and I’ll spit,

conjure a pink eyed guinea-pig. Call it Conker. I’ll summon a

Dad, subpoena him to talk at dinner, dance with me to Dire Straits,

brazen dervish, his heart a house, all windows and doors flung wide.

Quick climb out the tub, dry, exit before the water spirals, sucks

down the plug, so the pipe-gremlin can’t crawl, creep to find me

coiled, a tight bud on the bottom bunk. When my hair was a blonde

bowl we all got one wish on the Christmas pud like chicken clavicles

pulled apart with pinkies after a Sunday roast. A slosh of brandy

and egg yolk, dry mix slackens, flaunts glacé cherry, citrine

stem ginger. Three stirs anti-clockwise, Aunt Kath’s antique spatula

a sceptre. Little sister bouncing I take my time, eyes closed, call in

the angels, connect every wing tip particle. Wish, to break a leg, arm

or rib. By May I succeed, chip a bone the size of a chopped almond.

Ruddy cheeks blotted with my damp cuff as you and the duty doctor

lean in to scrutinise a back lit image of an ankle. Admiration at last

the attention of demigods.