Thanks for your rigour, Christina, To tell you the
truth I can't remember what my sister said but it
powerfully made me feel that I'd got it wrong and was
a sham for joining in weeping about something I didn't
understand and that she wished to believe was not my
concern. Perhaps not the right topic for a poem. I
actually shared your reservations about the
language.Many thanks. cara
--- Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]> wrote: >
Interesting poem, Cara. It doesn't quite hit the
> spot for me yet and I think
> that may be something to do with not being convinced
> by ''It's none of your
> concern:> after all it's down to Mum> whose Dad
> has gone'. The sister's
> language doesn't ring quite true to me. I like way
> you've interwoven the
> adult looking at her own child - it's great. The
> relationship with the older
> sister is interesting too. I just want to feel it
> that bit more sharply.
> Picking at scabs and blisters in paint works very
> well for me - good,
> complicated actions and very real. I fell iffy
> about these comments and wish
> I could be more helpful but I don't think I can.
> bw
> c
>
> >
> > 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.
>
>
>
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