Nobody, of Rotherham
“There is nobody here,” he’d said,
the policeman, back then,
when he’d shoved her, naked,
to the wall at the side of the bed.
Dad always said to stay home,
especially on school-nights:
dark cars purred outside;
they wanted her,
said to come out,
or they’d see to her Mum.
At the arcade with the girls,
split lips braved in cherry gloss,
laughing like real women;
bruises shrugged
under glitter eye-shadow
and clanking bangles lifted
from Claire’s Accessories.
She’d suck down smoke to blunt
last night’s taste as they’d wait
for their men to come
with vodka and again.
It’s still there, ten years on,
her accent, old rust that muted
her tongue. Now the town
where she’s from is News;
suits at the council, journos,
righteous politicians
saying bad stuff
happened there.
But, it’s just a place.
Nothing happened;
it was agreed at the time:
“There is nobody here.”
Holly Magill writes in Worcestershire, mainly in a
darkened room with a tea mug at her elbow and a cat nearby. She has had
poems appear in several publications including “Ink, Sweat & Tears”,
“Nutshells & Nuggets” and “The Poetry Bus”.
Ooooh, terribly dark!
Careful management of the speed of the lines through clustered accents conveys the very breathing of the speaker, and her rage and her honesty and finally what can’t be said. Excellent.
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Well done for tackling this subject so convincingly.
One of your best—congrats again
A sad, powerful yet brilliant poem. Congratulations on yet another publication!
Please forgive my tardiness. I am so far behind I may catch myself in the next lap…
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