Saturday, May 30, 2009


My dad whistles,
so I whistle.

I whistle when I'm home,
just arrived, freshly exhausted,
spent -
after a day's labour or emotional dive
into the depths of some dark,
awkward place
infected by the shadows of adolescent beings
that have never been my friends.

I whistle as much as to exhale,
as to inhale the scent of an embrace,
of this place called Here
standing on the welcome rug,
in a smile or a kiss or a hug,
in a space without fear.

I whistle
to shout out where I am -
in this corner
or up those stairs.
I whistle
to say I'm alone,
and you've caught me unawares.

I whistle
to say I'm on my drawing mat
so why don't you come in
and we'll have a picture or two to share

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