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.

Remember remember

greasy grey pavement, a smell
of sulphides and damp, smoke
straggling up from the ashes

your black school mac, a cat’s
gaping pink mouth, a willow’s
scorched branches,

ladybirds on the books you held,
the itch of the scarf you wore,
charred fur of a cat’s coat.

Sharon Phillips

If you have any thoughts on these poems, Sharon Phillips  would be pleased to hear them.