LAGGING BEHIND

Fumbling in the tartan lining of my old coat
for the armhole, settling the calm oilskin of the hood,

I see my mother's brief profile before she turns
back towards herself in the mirror,
pressing her lips to spread the lipstick.

Don't forget to hold your sleeve.

Beneath the sharp pleats of my tartan kilt
my round-toed leather shoes are brown, buckled
and shining like butterscotch.

Don't suck your fingers in town. Don't dawdle.

I did lag behind and suck my fingers,
developing the useful habit of silence
while my sisters ran ahead, begging for everything.

Now when I walk in tartan, a shell in my pocket,
always furled ready, replaces the rhythm of sucking.

So that stranded inland, I can turn and turn it back,
a fractal's infinite twist against my forward steps,
purplish and secretive as a newborn's thumb.

© Louise Oxley