Member Poem

The forgotten season

So accustomed am I to caring for her

that it’s gone six before I think of him,

wonder if he remembered the day she was born.

It’s thirteen years on and the first day of spring.

There are other numbers that we won’t speak of.

There are other seasons that we don’t mention.

But I can tell you that on mornings when the frost

is thick and glazes the windscreen, we walk to school,

hoods up against the spiteful wind, lips immotile.

That I fret over the mole on her left shoulder blade,

am faithful with the yearly check-up despite the expense,

always remind her to protect it from sunlight.

That she made her own Hallowe’en disguise from scraps,

remnants we’d salvaged, that my face was as fearful

as artless makeup made her look that awful night.

First published in The Interpreter’s House Issue 60, 2015.