‘To pervert the perpetual’ by Joyce Bingham

The path from the water is gnarled with tree roots, I know you will be here soon. I catch a glimpse of your/my blue shorts and the stripy top with a ship embroidered on it. I stand motionless as the trees around me, you walk past, intent on keeping the water in the jar of tadpoles from spilling. I tell myself that this is for the best, that this will work, but my heart thumps and my hands tremble. The note is ready, laboured over and written in your/my hand on lined paper torn from one of your/mine own exercise books. I wait for you to fall.

The jar smashes as you trip over a root, your/my knee stings, the graze blooming red. Tadpoles flap, collecting pine needles and dirt. I know you will cry over them, Ma will kiss your/my bleeding finger better, I can feel her soft lips, the sting of the cut.

I slipped the note into the back pocket of your shorts, as you watched the tadpoles die. I know you will find it at bedtime, and you will snuggle down with your/my bear to read. You will pin it up on the wall, but underneath a poster, a small corner peeking out to confirm it is real. When the day comes, will you obey, or will you repeat the mistake and doom us you/me to this perpetual dance in time.