Alphabeta

Alpha.

Apple.

Amy, can you say apple?

Slices in a bowl are sweet.

Wrapping my mouth around them

all too big for little teeth and tongue and lips.

Quiet calls

to make peace with the theatre of private things:

the pathos of plays on the bedroom carpet.

I hum a tune to myself,

and listen.

Bravo!

Ball.

Blue, red, yellow.

Sky, fire-engine, banana.

Sad, angry, happy.

Babbling along to splotchy hand paintings.

Primary hues like small syllables

scrawl stick figures of the colour spectrum.

I bump up against the end of a line

as it runs into another

and I hope you read between them.

See?

Now I know my ABCs,

Sing with me.

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~

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This poem is part of a project titled, 'Tell Me How You Really Feel'.

See the rest of the project here.

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