Graduate
The bell ringing tumbles
clanging down your spine.
You feel a soft wind, warm
enough for bare legs, and the
baked grass stencils itself
into your flesh.
It’s the slow yellow evening
after her graduation. You think back
to trying on her robes: how you’d
jammed on the heavy, wobbling
mortarboard so it dragged
your hair from its knot; hung
the gown over your shoulders. It was
more like carrying than wearing,
an absurd costume on you, scratchy
black like old school blazers; sleeves
dripping, hood slipping. On her,
however, it glided;
a graceful, meaningful wake.
Your face was a picture
when you took in the gilded bannister,
the thrones, the carpet, the rousing
Handel overture. You waited for her head
to bob into view, watched as the chancellor
Laid his hands over hers. You felt young
as you posed for photos, the sun as strong
as a hand pushing at your back.
Jenny Danes grew up in Essex and now lives in Newcastle where she studies English Literature and German. In 2013 she was highly commended in the Bridport Prize for poetry, and she is currently one of the literature editors for Alliterati magazine. She also runs poetry workshops within Newcastle University’s creative writing society.