She must be eight months pregnant,
body sturdy in the red jersey dress
that clings to her breasts and bump,
her lips are carmine, dreads braided.
When her name is called, she smiles
and strides to the oncology suite.
greasy grey pavement, a smell
of sulphides and damp, smoke
straggling up from the ashes
your black school mac, a catís
gaping pink mouth, a willowís
ladybirds on the books you held,
the itch of the scarf you wore,
charred fur of a catís coat.
If you have any thoughts on these poems, Sharon Phillips
would be pleased to hear them.