An Absence of Life

We sleep in jam jars 

on the top shelf in the scullery.

There are a lot of us,

and besides, it’s the warmest room.

I squint through glass

at Grandpa’s rainbow head,

but not at Granny’s prunes, 

that sit like slugs laughing

on the yellow saucer on the sill. 

They keep me regular, she says, 

like clockwork. But I know that —

she owns one big, one small hand. 

Her teeth have their own jar.

I like her tiny teeth —

at night they tell forest tales 

in black and white, and during the day

speak from her mouth in colour.

Each morning I stand on the back of the red chair 

to reach my jar, to let myself out. Sometimes I laugh, 

that way they won’t notice my second shadow,

have one less thing to worry about.