I Don’t Have a Name for This
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They get to work. Small hands even smaller against too-big chalk. “You’ve drawn too many legs,” says the girl to the boy, “chickens only have two.” Her companion explains that they grow one every year, up to sixty or so he hears. “That’s silly,” the girl says, “chickens don’t live that long*.” The boy takes out a photograph and explains his hen hatched twenty-four years ago*. Perhaps they had given her a green-hued brew*, the girl thinks: the kind in the movies that make you grow. She briefly wonders if animals threw birthday parties* too. At dusk, the girl and the boy step back to admire their obstacle course—pastel chalk lines between her house and his. The boy asks if they had done enough for the night: for the moon* was going to bed soon. “Of course not, can't you see?* ” she says to him, “There is so much more to do*.”

I don’t have a name for this feeling about
too-high bookshelves, and
too-low stool chairs, and
too-sharp pictures, and
too-blunt pen tips, and
too-loud talking, and
too-soft wantings, and
too-big fondness, and
too-small classrooms, and
too-wide arm spans, and
too-thin door gaps, and
too-long bus rides, and
too-short goodbyes.

︎750 (W) × 750mm (H)
︎India ink and pen