I would greatly value comments. I wonder if the
'stuff' and 'Mum' and 'Dad' should beput into rather
more formal lang. cheers, cara
Siblings
--
Adult stuff is going on indoors.
Sent out to play,
we cleave to the back step;
pick at blisters in paint,
scabs on knees.
I cry.
I could have reason:
the night vigils have ceased;
the knee I used to climb onto
has straightened
into its final pose.
I am four.
I do not know about death.
Even Tammy, my imagined dog,
hero of legendary encounters,
has never ventured
close to a grave.
My sister frowns.
Scorn arches her nose and lip,
flares her beauty.
Four years my senior
she will always
shake me off, outrun me.
'Why are you crying?'
She leans on the 'you',.
goes on to say
'It's none of your concern:
after all it's down to Mum
whose Dad has gone'.
I stop.
I'd wanted to cry like Mum.
Instead I'm shamed,
shot through with 'hypocrisy',
though neither of us
know that name.
Dry-eyed, stubborn, alone,
I pick at scabs on paint.
cara decenber 2001
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