In the cousins’ room the light bulbs crack.
There are limbs reaching out
for the Peter Pan collars of speechless girls.
They wait in skin that is not their own.
In the dark they forget the names
of each others’ mothers. They kneel.
They feel the fur creep to their necks
from the blue-bitten wolves.
In fractured handbags they carry fabric
and knitted souls. They stretch themselves.
Their heels find conkers and the stumps of trees.
The stench of wheat beer breadcrumbs.
Outside there is music to cut their bones.
In groups, they search their hair for keys. Their poor
scarred heads. They know too many things now.