Miguel
For several summers of my childhood,
my mother took in Spanish students.
i.
The chalice of bone
at the top of the sternum,
almost an egg-cup
in the shadow of his cleft chin.
How the clavicle became him,
there in the gap,
that font where his fine gold
chain and cross collected –
a vessel for christening,
my forefinger blessed.
ii.
He swung me round
like helicopter blades
so I could fly – horizontal
to his tall mast,
bare legs spinning
around his pivot,
my life in his hands
above our carpet of grass,
pale English boy
in his firm Spanish grasp.
The Kindling 