There were several children gathered,
cousins and almost cousins
playing cards,
imitating the parents inside –
children are the lyrebirds of the human world
adopt tone and stance to perfection; once
I copied my mother’s words and tone,
cried out from her lap,
“hurry up Mick.” Father entered
pretending to undo his belt.
It was a joke but not for me
I fled, crying like a corned fowl,
hours later mother found me
but reactions can never be undone.
In that circle a children’s game
played out – the thing remembered
is not the game, nor words
nothing except the way the un-cousins
stared at two of the cousins, those two
were engaged in a losing battle
to maintain their eyesight;
could only see their cards peripherally.
Grownups imitate those two cousins,
pretend to see reality
but adult eyes are always slightly turned
so instead of seeing truth
they watch the peripheral shadows
and never have to say a word
about what is actually seen.
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