Amanda at 4

Her mouth grazes the bad ointment --
one warped thumb, glazed purple,
goes for the pinky instead.
She is corked.
The other hand moves down,
holds herself through the petticoat,
small spade, a plucked diving bird,
neck ringed to stop the full swallow.
She is covered.
Hair a modest chestnut,
bangs long and falling
into the eye-socket.

Through my daughter,
she is vicariously ashamed
of her own shimmering nudity
shifting uncomfortably beneath
the frosting and reek of dress-up.
She is blind and backing
into the unfocusing of our back wall.

But Amanda, she struts right up,
puffed out rooster, yellow fingers
splayed and pointy from four years
sucking on their sleepy sweetness --
the beginning of a lifetime, I hope,
thrusting proud into the foreground
despite a string of disappearances,

girlfriend after girlfriend dropping
mum through the wallpaper,
out of earshot and asking for the veil.

-- Karyna McGlynn