A living statue looks out of her son’s bedroom window
I do dryad-face; spindly: stilt walk,
freeze, like in the Barcelona square: enticed folk
to take photos with a dip, body sway,
then saw them off with a fingernail jive. Nearly twenty, he stays
in the small room where the PSP works better;
shuns the twitter of sunlight, mutter
of shadows. In here a gross toy bear
headbutts a melamine cupboard. Bare-
footed, I move back to the bathroom, not even half
a Statue of Liberty despite spray silver hair,
appalled at eye-bags, leg veins; turn tail on spliff ends
chucked on the conservatory roof. I want to be eight feet high.
Drag nail -snagged silver skins up over my thighs.