Bubbles

by Luke Otley

I write streams
of journals about woe, about life.
I decide
what is worth sorrow,
I say to my sister–
come on, it’s late
get to bed–
I can’t help smiling
at her tear streaked cheeks
or at the unfairness of the world.

Mum’s sadness
is muddier, and it touches my inexperience.
I live somewhere
in between loud hot tears
and a spanked bum,
and sighs
that make their escape
through a smile
over the sink.