Gummy hands, spread saliva like manna onto floors, walls, furniture. Little shirt darkens in the front, takes on a sheen, becomes a badge, portable air conditioning. No scientist more focussed, first hand then mouth then eyes, repeat roll between fingers, pick up, drop. Daddy longlegs, pumping stilt legs across the floor, not fast enough, crumpled, dropped like leaves, abandoned for colour, movement, blinking lights, screens. Frontiers limited by head bumps, overwhelm, wailing, climbs up monolith legs for warmth, suckling, soothing, nodding, till sated, ready to begin again.
Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, Canada. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Leaf, The Prairie Journal, Synaeresis, The Plum Tree Tavern, Sublunary, Grand Little Things, Bluepepper, Anti-Langourous Project, Cacti Fur, Oyedrum, The Trouvaille Review, Stanza, and Fresh Voices. She has contributed to a number of anthologies, including No Corners to Hide in, The Language of Dew and Sunsets, Women Who Care, Much Madness, Divinest Sense, Tending the Fire and i am what becomes of broken branch. She has fallen madly in love with her three extraordinary grandsons.