anthropophobia

narcissus

my mother dances up to the door

her hair fanning out like a pleated skirt

her nails flashing red on the door.

"oh, you must be harry!" she smiles 

as bright as a broken firework.

"come in! is your mother coming around?"

"she'll be here any minute now," harry replies

one hand in his hair.

it's the colour of summer

with hints of ginger

like sprinkled cinammon through the sand.

he flops down across the couch

after my mother takes the cake away

sliding it into the pantry

hiding it behind the door.

i know she may love the kindest of gestures

and she may love the idea of a homemade cake

but when the intruder leaves

she will not eat the cake.

she loves the artwork

but she is too afraid

to just

reach

out

and 

touch.

*