By Christian Ward 

Ornament 

At birth, mother placed me 
in a terrarium on the shelf.
I learnt to get shade
under the succulents,
gather water from condensation,
feed on whatever nutrients 
circulated like poems in the air.
I sung out of boredom,
watched the cork night rarely change.
Rarely did I consider escaping
as I found my father’s corpse,
still as a Buddha, in the base.
Look how the outside world 
dons a coat of dust while I am kept 
in mint condition – a collectible 
to be carefully handed down.

May

Summer is caught
in the throat 
of a mothering robin,
ready to be flown 
when sunlight teases
through the trees,
and the rain is a note
to be returned to sender.

the slap

the slap’s 
drum-song 
was heard 
across skies
across the sun 
across mountains
across forests

kids in towns
fell to their knees 
before fast forwarding
into adults 
dogs howled
& turned into statues 
cats meowed, 
shifted into fish

the moon became 
a bowling ball 
& knocked down 
the stars

the mother 
who dealt it
could be heard
weeping for years 
after she was gone