Ebba McDermott
My Practice
When I was little I pulled out my eyelashes with a clip,
I closed it around them, tugged it hard with a grip.
I rubbed them on my head to make hundreds of wishes,
I rubbed my bum on a cat, collected crumbs for the fishes.
Now I paint mountains and horses and willows,
I paint goats and fat babies, I watch people through windows.
I wished for a creature I could summon by whistle,
Not a pig or a cow or a wasp or a beetle.
I explore and sing songs, forage stones, take flight,
But I can’t whistle or rust or tell my left from my right.
In the forest, casting spells and flicking shit with a stick,
brushing my hair, and my teeth, having swims in the nip.
No whistle, no creature, my wish can’t be,
But it’s fine, maybe soon, found a spot, had a wee.