Me Twice Poem by nicky kelly

It can be put on without a mirror.
The boy, wolf or bear cub, has a stab at
being the O-
-point Mum and Dad
in the centre nerve of the tondo
(a ghost of a smile, half opened little lips,
drips of two-color popsicle, new integral parts to look at) .
She, white-lemon, went to the ogre‘s land of Nod
- with a false beard
and the depth gauge –
curbed a fragrant kindred spirit
elbowing her pet’s way through the apron strings,
the little finger in the trap,
the marzipan façade,
the salute.

The purple-raspberry reaper. It’s really him. It’s not.
He’s minutely into all the details of
-pestle and mortar handy
in a ray of coquetry
or the happy medium -
that page torn from her
so much varnished photobook
- shading from mellow-
of scruples.
In pecking order.
there all is shown that is not in King James’s Bible.