Not Close

Where’s the kid? Kirkehuse
asks. She’s in bed, she’s sleeping,
Mother says. About time; never
knew a kid to yak so much. She’s just

a child. She’s a yakker and she talks
too much. Mother cuddles up close
to Kirkehuse on the sofa as he sips
his booze. You’re too soft with her;

she gets away with things. When I
was a kid I kept quiet and did as I
was told and if I didn’t my old man’d
make sure I knew what’d happen if

I didn’t, Kirkehuse says. Mother kisses
his stubbly cheek. I try, she mutters.
Well, you don’t try hard enough.
The kid just yaks and thinks she knows

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poem by Terry Collett
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Under Apple Trees

She lay beside you
under the apple trees

the bees and butterflies overhead
the glimmer of sunlight

through the branches
and she said

I can smell the apples
from here

and if I close my eyes
I feel I'm in a foreign field

lying in some overseas orchard
and happy beneath the sun

and you turned your head
and said

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poem by Terry Collett
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Uncle's Shave.

Uncle’s Shave.

You used to watch Uncle
shave in front of the small mirror

propped on the edge
of the kitchen sink,

his face lathered
in white soap,

his cutthroat razor
held just a short distance

from his skin
by his right hand,

as the other hand
held the skin taut

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poem by Terry Collett
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Almost There

She had that look
that turn of head
that stare
and you weren’t
the only guy
to have been moved by her

or whose boat
had been almost
capsized by her
but there again

these dames
don’t come along
every day
and there was that Sunday

you took that trip
over to her place

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poem by Terry Collett
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Cut Throat

Delia Demoat cut her husband’s
Throat. Delia slit it clean. She held
His hair tight with her small hand
In a firm grip. There was little fight.
Unexpected and sudden. He slumped
In the chair blood shooting across
And spraying the TV screen. Delia
Released his hair and stood back
The bloody knife in her right hand.
She was shaking, her hands shook.
On the floor by the armchair where
He sat a small book. Blood-soaked
Pages and cover. A gift from his lover.
She dropped the knife, stared at the
TV screen, some I Love Lucy show,
Canned laughter, black and white.
Flickering images. She peered over
The back of the armchair. He was
Slumped bloodied there. She ached,
The bruises showed on arms, her split

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poem by Terry Collett
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How Mother Looked

You want to look how Mother looked.
Makeup she used to use lies on her
Dressing table in the room father has
Had locked up. You have secreted the
Key and unlocked and closing the door,
Are sitting facing your image in the mirror’s
Glass you’ve propped against a chair. You
Do not have your mother’s hair. You have
Her eyes, Father said, although he says it
Less now since her death, as if stealing
From the dead. You want to transform
Yourself into her; be the woman she was;
Have her beauty; have her smile; her gentle
Manner. Cancer took her like thief at night;
Reduced her to a bag of bones and hanging
Skin, pale and thin. Forget that image, Father
Chides, cast it away, lock behind the mind’s
Dark doors. You want to look how Mother
Looked before her sad demise, before cold
Cancer’s deceit and lies. Still a child, Father

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poem by Terry Collett
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Suffocated

Millie Allstruck suffocated
Her daughter. Millie held
The cushion down. Saw her
Daughter’s arms flap like
Some bird in a trap. Millie
Held her breath for as long
As she could, until the arms
Stopped flapping, until her
Bird was dead. She stood
There holding the cushion
In place waiting for sounds,
Any motion. Millie removed
The cushion, stood gaping,
Holding the cushion, breathing
In deep. Her daughter lay there
Staring into space, a sense of
Peace on her three year old face.
Millie had pushed out the cancer,
Put out the fire. She had her
Daughter back sans pains, sans

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poem by Terry Collett
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The Parson's Daughter

She always seemed
to be dressed in grey

the parson’s daughter
and had little to say

but there she’d be
on the school bus

each day
a few seats in front

looking out
of the window

and you’d gaze at her
and wonder what thoughts

occupied her mind
and what feelings

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poem by Terry Collett
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Whose Truth.

You have no monopoly
on truth, says Daultil.

It wears a many coloured
coat; each one picks out

colours for their own cloth.
We sit like those in Plato’s

cave seeing shadows dance
upon the wall and think those

shadows reality and the fire
giving off flames some god

who cares. Daultil sips his
flask of booze. You watch

him lift it to his lips. His words
hang around your head like

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poem by Terry Collett
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Gazing At Sunflowers

Your first wife’s friend
came in with her

for a coffee and chat
and you were sitting

on the sofa
with the sleeping cat

and she looked
at the Van Gogh print

of sunflowers
over the mantelpiece

above the open fire
did you paint that?

the friend asked
staring at it

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poem by Terry Collett
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