As the wrinkled skin of milk over-boiled
conjures the sludge of moistening bath balls,
the pucker of wet paper – graphite’s aquaplane –
summons up bubble bath, its faux-clementine.
And, though I know that a single memory
so often beacons through our infant clutter,
I’m surprised that (though only a decade ago)
I remember the red, the nap of the pyjamas
I shed for the bath; how urgent it seemed
to run bare-arsed and dangling
in search of a pen and the paper I’d hold
in muculent hands; each letter bleeding
to a smutch or shadow. I remember this.
I cannot remember my first kiss’s name.
From: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/feb/03/poem-of-the-week-ahren-warner
Date: 2013
By: Ahren Warner (1986- )