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| nicola field |  | 1. MOTHERS All over the car park In front of the flats A pitbull terrier Spits foam, disembowels An old yellow sofa. His owner’s a man, standing by, Chatting. People have chucked mattresses, orange peel, Bits of bike and a burnt-out Fiesta, Over the wall, To where the foxes lick their cubs. The council has put repairs on hold Pending the Regeneration. But still, (and of course, I wouldn’t say this to anyone other than you), Didn’t their mothers teach them anything? 2. SHARP This kitchen is the best so far. Twenty by twenty-two, with three Ovens and two fridges. It looks out onto roses, a rockery And the dark pink Malvern Hills. Mum’s trimming greenish fat Off a cooked ham, another on the boil, At her island unit (Ideal Home Exhibition 1995). The scissors twist, turn, snap. Her mouth is probably watering. He’s suddenly there: “Where d’you want these, Dear? Quick!” He’s got a frozen trout, sword-nose down, On each forearm. Silver-tight, fat, venous, eczema. “They’re sticking!” Grey roots in her crown She snips twice Then looks up “Get a bowl, can’t you?” The pressure cooker hisses He limps to the sink As if to lay down firewood Then shakes down the glinting fish And comfort his arms with water. “You’re splashing all over the place.” She snips on. “These scissors are nowhere near sharp enough.” Outside, the roses get ready For another winter. The rockery lichen spreads one micromillimetre. Clouds drift, the colour of bruise. The cat has done well: Roast chicken in jelly, steamed cod, Cushion on top of the boiler, Cream, kisses, conversation. I’m away from this Among my own systems. No cats, no husband, no meat or fish, No roses, no rockery, no hills. 3. RAW Ascending the church steps I look up High on the terrace, the mother and son are stripping An obelisk of blood raw goat | |
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