Winter 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 4


Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Reviews   

Terry Collett



Watching Mother

Your mother is peeling apples
for the apple pie

and you stand watching her
and say can I have some peelings?

Sure she says
it’s probably the best part anyway

and you notice she has tears in her eyes
and wonder if the old man

has had a go at her again
like that time over the camera

and her saying jokingly
you look like some tourist

in upstate New York
and he thumped her one

and her lip bled
and you stood watching

keeping your mouth shut
but wanting to go at him

but you being too small
stood still

and as she peels the apples
you watch her hands

go over the apples
with a skill of years of experience

and you watch as the tears
run down the side of her nose

and fall like raindrops
on to her busy hands

and you focus like some artist
at the way that they land.



Her Sexuality

Even her mother
never knew

how much
sexuality boiled

beneath the surface
how much

she thought of it
when sitting down

in some cafe
watching men

at some nearby table

about them
dreaming about

what they might do
if she allowed

or while sitting
at the office typing

her mind on things
which’d make

her mother blush
the mighty rush

of images
and desires

and old Mr Fleet
talking to her

about some work
not knowing that fires

burned beneath
her flesh and skirt

that she made love
to herself

while in bed
while others slept

and even Kennedy
the office ram

would have choked
on things she did

in dreams or wrote
in her locked up diary

and once
when some girlfriend

of her brother’s
stayed the night

and shared her room
and bed

she fantasized
of touching

and turning over
and kissing

all in the mind
she told herself

just one of those things
and even later

when she finally married
and lay beside him

at night having
sucked him dry

she’d stared
out the window

at the silver moon
in the dark sky.



Seaside Visitation

Your grandchildren
play in the sea,
splashing and screaming
as the water chills.

You watch as you sit
on the stone wall,
your feet on the sand.

Anny stands staring out
at the broad horizon,
her ghostly hand
above her brow
to keep out
the sun’s bright glare,
her small phantom feet
touching the beach,
far from the water’s reach.

She hears the playful screams,
and ventures on down
between the crowds
who occupy the sands
with chairs and towels
and windbreaker walls.

She waits and gazes
at your grandchildren’s play,
her blonde hair and bow
touched by the sun’s glow.

You watch her as stands there
rooted in the sands,
knowing none see her
as you do now, her hands
resting behind her back,
seemingly in deep thought,
she wanders along the beach,
her eyes taking in
the seaside show,
her profile captured
by the sun’s warm kiss.

She turns and looks at you,
knowing that you see her there,
smiling she waves a hand,
then she’s gone from sight,
as once before
in Auschwitz’s hold she went.

Nothing now but the sea sound
and grandchildren’s laughter
and sea air and Anny’s scent.


© Terry Collett


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Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Reviews   

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