She is seventeen, her hair deep purple,
hanging in dreads, some fake, some real.
She wears studded boots, layered black velvet
down over her wrists.
At twenty-one, her hair flows luminous green—
lighting the path she seeks through campus.
Her blouse, a flourish of saffron messaline,
covers her arms.
Now twenty-five, her hair Rosetti auburn—
she becomes Ophelia, La Pia, Beata Beatrix,
with russet stains inside her sleeves.
I turn to my mother’s piano
in the living-room corner
…..“When will you leave?”
Always… or maybe
…..“Will you play for me?”
Never… or possibly
Grave for a Family Cat
She still remembers where he lies, feels the jolt
of her spade as it hacked the frozen earth
by the wild blackberries.
She lowered the cardboard box, extemporised
a sketchy ritual, rallied her kids enough
to say goodbye.
She stamped down a stone to keep his bones
from breaking through, but now it heaves
for want of words, of flowers.
she would wait
to wince at the curse
that burst through
the partition wall,
as her brother
hit his head
on the sloping ceiling
in his sliver
of the attic room
Jinny Fisher lives in Somerset and is a member of Taunton’s Juncture 25 and Wells Fountain Poets. Her poems have been published in print and online including in The Interpreter’s House, Under the Radar, Prole and Ink, Sweat & Tears. She likes to push around The Poetry Pram and hopes to get a book out one day.