Pixie practice

Hospital mental ward
communal room smoked
confused loneliness.
Daytime TV marked
aimless time between
weekly consultations.
She sat companioned by
teenage angst counting
cuts and burns of
escapism and control,
her body slight, underweight,
a pixie lost from her toadstool.

He saw her hidden perkiness,
the way she perched cross-
legged on the lounge chair.
He was a middle-aged,
suicidal father, but
he could practice as a pixie too.
He sat cross-legged beside her,
he couldn’t believe she
wanted to die,
she couldn’t believe he
didn’t want to live,
they gestured their mood towards
each others’ pixie positions.

He came good soon after,
she took a little longer,
and in times of heartache she
remembers him and calls herself
back to the practice of the pixie pose.

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