<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Christmas Card<\/strong><\/p>\n Shirley lay in the bed The labor had been easy; There was no need for pretense here. She loved a night without drunk-talk, Shirley did not worry about the way She thought about her brand-new baby, She lay her fourth-decade ear Shirley breathed in the scent of vomit and Pine-Sol Shirley filled in Christmas cards, The letters were all stamped and mailed <\/p>\n Bethany W Pope<\/strong> is an award-winning writer. She received her PhD from Aberystwyth University\u2019s Creative Writing program, and her MA from the University of Wales Trinity St David. She has published several collections of poetry: A Radiance<\/em> (Cultured Llama, 2012) Crown of Thorns<\/em>,(Oneiros Books, 2013), The Gospel of Flie<\/em>s (Writing Knights Press 2014), and Undisturbed Circles<\/em>(Lapwing, 2014). Her collection The Rag and Boneyard<\/em> was published this year by Indigo Dreams and her chapbook Among The White Roots shall be released by Three Drops Press next autumn. Her first novel, Masque, was published by Seren this June.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Twelfth Night\u2028<\/strong><\/p>\n We unpack our dead relatives revive their wooden bones They’re propped up on the sofa (we remember to involve them They are our Nativity, paper hats from long-spent crackers We study them with corner-eyes: <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Ben Banyard<\/strong> lives in Portishead, near Bristol. His debut pamphlet, Communing<\/em>, was published by Indigo Dreams in February 2016. He blogs at\u00a0https:\/\/benbanyard.wordpress.com<\/a>\u00a0and edits Clear Poetry:\u00a0https:\/\/clearpoetry.wordpress.com<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Christmas Card Shirley lay in the bed in her prim, backless robe, surrounded by the breath of other mothers and the milky scent of babies. Her own newest child lay beside her, as wrinkled as an apple past its prime, but active and large in the bassinet. It waved one hand, inchoate […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[65],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12926","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2016"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12926","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12926"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12926\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12929,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12926\/revisions\/12929"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12926"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12926"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12926"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nin her prim, backless robe,
\nsurrounded by the breath of other mothers
\nand the milky scent of babies.
\nHer own newest child lay beside her, as wrinkled
\nas an apple past its prime, but active
\nand large in the bassinet.
\nIt waved one hand,
\ninchoate and curled, at its mother
\nas she filled in the cards.<\/p>\n
\nas painful as the last one, but over fast.
\nTom was at home with the girls-
\nshe could trust him that far-
\nand though she missed him she reveled
\nin the eerie half-silence of the room she shared
\nwith five other young mothers.<\/p>\n
\nThe other women on the ward burbled softly,
\nto each other and their fresh spawn.
\nA smile from Shirley was all they required.
\nThey left her alone.<\/p>\n
\na night without wariness, or a visit from her in-laws.
\nShe did not have to worry
\nabout red-headed Janet, her little, lying
\nthree-year-old girl who said such things
\nabout her grandfather. Lisping him, \u2018wicked\u2019.<\/p>\n
\nJoyce shied away from treats or touching,
\nthe way she gnawed on bloodied nails,
\nchipping her milk-teeth.
\nShe did not have to think
\nabout where the money would come from,
\nthis month, or how they would afford
\nboth beer and food.<\/p>\n
\nso perfect, so quiet, the round apple-head
\ndusted with soft black hair.<\/p>\n
\nacross that five-day-old chest
\nand heard the stuttering beat of that small heart,
\nalready terribly flawed.<\/p>\n
\nand thought about the ache between her legs.
\nHer Presbyterian ethic had leeched to her marrow,
\nalways incapable of enjoying a vacation,
\nshe wondered when she would
\nbe well enough to work again.<\/p>\n
\nher neat secretary’s hand, architectural as printing,
\nscribing out five names after ‘Love’.
\nTom, Shirley, Janet, Joyce and our new baby, Lilly.<\/p>\n
\nbefore she found the body cold.<\/p>\n
\nfrom newspaper-stuffed boxes,<\/p>\n
\nwith saucers of eggnog.<\/p>\n
\nas Pictionary roars along,<\/p>\n
\nin our arguments).<\/p>\n
\ncarved tableau in 70s orange,<\/p>\n
\nglued to their dated hair-dos.<\/p>\n
\nthose who we pack away, and must become.<\/p>\n