I weave static filaments into a silk braid,
too substantial, like a wagtail’s plumage.
She wants each button fastened, skirt pleats straight.
She is a miniature caricature,
my porcelain doll.
Her buckles are stiff but she perseveres.
Behind me her reflection looks inwards,
in private conversation with herself.
She half-jumps briskly to the pavement,
her water bottle large as a bucket.
She will not allow me to hold her hand,
steps deftly round puddles, concentrating.
The whistle goes. She looks warningly at me
and walks away, buffeted but not deterred
by ricocheting children, each rougher than
this small gem.
She goes in, holding herself tight.
The inside of the car is quiet,
a vacuum, and in the mirror
there is just my face—
it is absurd,
like a deflating balloon,
and I feel sorry for it.
