Cuckoo Sister
Your mother named you Denise Florence:
a pencil shavings, navy knickers, inky fingered name.
I bounce the syllables on my tongue: they taste
of sherbet lemon; I roll them between my fingertips:
the grit of salt and vinegar crisps pricks my paper cuts.
Our mother called you Catherine Francesca:
a dulcimer playing, Titian beauty, satin ballgown name.
Like a bridemaid’s dress that cuts into your armpits,
it never quite fitted.
The tightrope between your names stretches taut
as a cheese wire. I have watched you wobble, tumble,
then climb, remount.
Oh, my sister, let me bind your wounded feet.
*Liz Loxley lives in Flintshire. Her poems have been anthologised by publishers including Faber, Penguin and Oxford University Press, have appeared in various poetry magazines and have been studied by school students. Liz is now studying for an MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) at Manchester Metropolitan University.
