My imaginary friend tasted words too.
When I was with her there was no need
to pretend that words didn’t taste of anything.
We sat in the chalk-dust scented book corner
devouring places like Persia, Russia and Samarkand
bathed in the jewel-bright colours of the fairy-tale book.
We rolled the words around our mouths like gobstoppers
turned away from school dinner stew and mashed potato
saying we weren’t hungry.