Unsupervised One Saturday

At ten o'clock 
one Saturday, 
I sellotaped razor blades 
all over my body 
and wondered why 
I did not become 
sharp. 

At twenty past ten, 
I wrote myself in 
as the recipient 
on all my cheques 
and wondered why 
I did not become 
rich. 

At quarter past eleven, 
I cracked all the eggs, 
hundreds of them, 
into one vast bowl 
and mixed them all together 
in an effort to understand 
the questions of life 
and motherhood, but 
the vast gluey mixture 
just sat there 
and shone 
in the morning sunlight, 
froth like spit. 
It was neither water nor air. 
It was bodyful and knowing. 
I thought I could hear it 
laughing. 
I tossed in all the egg shells, 
but it did not make it better. 
In fact, 
it made it worse. 

At five to twelve, I broke 
a living room 
window 
and wondered 
why 
my home did not fill 
with air.

At half past one, 
I threw 
all the books on the floor 
and wondered why 
the words 
did not mingle and mate 
and make more 
books.

At five to two, 
I looked in the mirror 
and saw 
that I bled 

from the razor blades 
and the broken glass 
and had bits of dried egg yolk 
on my glasses. 
I took my glasses off, 
rubbed my eyes 
and wished 
that I hadn't done 
any of it. 

Then I went 
and I filled 
every container 
with water 
and put each one 
on the floor. 
I made a museum 
of water. 
I made a regiment 
of a water army. 
I kept doing it. 
I couldn't remember 
if 
I'd done it before. 
The water vessels looked 
noble and various. 
It looked like a forest. 
I felt like a giant. 

Soon, the water rose up 
like a tide 
and carried me 
and my sellotape 
and razors 
and my books 
and my eggs, 
and we all flowed 
through the hole 
in the window 
and down the hill 

and into the river

and away.