Some made quirky block-houses, some lurching
Mountains with blinding swathes of emerald;
Some crayoned gnarled stick families grinning
Wolfishly up at you. They held the world
And all its galleries cheaper than their
Own masterpieces, took adoration
For granted, as a birthright. All but her.

Scrunch-faced, she flung you a strange concoction
Of play-dough, paint and beads, tossing her head 
With swagger belied by hands in motion
Already to ward off a blow. You said,
Looking only at the bead-studded shapes
Of black-streaked purple guck, like one entranced,
Meeting a long-lost friend – ‘Zinfandel grapes!
How lovely!” Slowly, the glare that lanced 

Your smile, as if to pierce through to the pain
The mockery, crouched in wait underneath –
Slowly the fierce glare twitched into a laugh
And the other children gathered in half
Circles to look, giggling no more. Lethe-
Like, you gave her the right to hope again –
  To dream of breaking free.

And I – every morning, as I roll dough
Into balls, I squint until they turn just
A little purple, and uncoil to grow
Bead-studs, always see in the flour’s fine dust
You, the day I almost broke a child’s heart –
You, saving us both. The grapes on this bough
  Will never rot for me.