Her cracked hands make a horse,
out of glue. Its sticky mane, its wonky
legs take an age to set. She builds a fire
from splats and scrips of soap, and
paints it charcoal. A fine tree
flourishes with mashed-up Basildon
Bond – pale blue, and paintable.
With pigments. She uses them to create
albumen, urine, iron, spit, and polishes
the surface until it abounds in bees.
Little honey. With perfume, she fashions
a whale’s gut, bust cuttlefish, and smashes her
piano into Chopsticks to model a midget
elephant. Glass she crushes, until
it is a boundless beach, a bay’s worth.
She takes her nan’s old phonograph records,
and crunches the shellac into angry insects,
seventy-eight of them. Lipstick,
nicked from her mum, she turns into castor
oil, much of it, and drinks the fifties.
Money for old rope (which she transforms
into mother-in-law’s tongue): at length,
she rustles some spice and molasses,
whipping up a storm, which is herself.