You are little gold fish flickering in clear water,
the stiff bristles of a horse-hair brush,
and her eyes when they crinkle at the corners.
You are the bald pink tail of a white rat,
the slight pinch of an injected needle,
and the one time my dad made bread.
You are not the wild bull’s wet nose,
Grandfather’s best suit jacket,
or a mouthful of small marbles.
However, you could still be the stab of a knife into wood,
The shock of dipping a toe into a frozen lake,
Or dancing under the sun in winter when it burns grey.