Thatís not my Kate, I said, her skin is pink,
scrubbed with carbolic soap, Elizabeth Arden blues
daubed behind pointed pierced ears. Matter of fact,
where are her earrings? Ridiculous feathered things,
the colour of lapis lazuli. Why isnít she wearing them?
No, no, thereís been a mistake, I said,
thatís not my Kate.
Why isnít she wearing her glasses, I asked.
Theyíre wide as an Owlís orange stare, rimmed
with lemon yellow, shade of a sweet summer eve,
drunk on golden tequila. Thatís not my Kate, I cried,
where are her glasses? My Kate always wore her glasses.
The fish-belly pale of this womanís flesh
might look familiar, I admit, but no, no, thatís not my Kate.
She was found where? In twenty-four Holly drive?
Yes, yes, that was her address. The crumbling, quaint
white walls of her lonely little cottage. Her walls
clung with soft Ivy, tough bulrushes which knotted themselves
a serpent garland around the rusted black gate, where weíd sit
PG-tips together, two sugars, a splash of milk.
But no, no, youíve got the wrong woman. Thatís not my Kate.
Self-defence wounds? Oh.
My Kate was a fighter, a silver-tongued,
claws-out warrior. Blood under her nails?
Skin in her teeth? Kate wore scabbed knees
from where she fell off her bike as a child, bruised
fists from punching men twice her size in the smoking area of
Oh, yes. I think so. I see it now, sir.
might be my Kate.
If you have any
thoughts about this poem, Ella
Pheasant would be pleased to hear them