Barnacle Geese
She sat all day outside the poultry tent
behind a bric-a-brac table
and sunglasses.
She didn’t notice, no, she didn’t care
about the sunburn on her shoulders.
She quite liked the pain,
something pink and visible
a singe, not a thud.
Everyone was being so nice.
The lady who had written,
with deepest sympathy,
gave her a long, close hug
during the ferret racing announcement.
The lady’s watchstrap stung her sunburn
and she sobbed once, loudly and low.
Deb asked her to look after
her little boy, which was insensitive,
actually, thinking about it,
which she did after Deb came back
with an ice cream
to say thank you for looking after
her little boy
whose name she couldn’t remember
when really he’d been no trouble.
She didn’t ask what he was called,
just in case.
She bit at the ice cream
in spite of sensitive teeth
and it dribbled from the sides of her mouth.
She didn’t notice, no, she didn’t care
about brain freeze
or the ladies walking past
who, deaf and numb, clucked
her son
cliff
Alum Bay
child of his own
how selfish
how very sad.
She abandoned the bric-a-brac
with an honesty box
and a sign saying
donations welcome,
sorry
She ducked under the doorway
of the poultry tent and tugged
the flap over and closed.
It was quiet and stuffy
and she sat down at the back,
her head on a cage,
a rosette cupping her cheek.
The goose inside didn’t even hiss.
Lily Blacksel is a final year English with Creative Writing student at the University of Birmingham, with a dear love for the three Rs: Reading, Riting and Rperforming. IShe has just begun the poetry MfA at Columbia University, New York.