I was fifteen.
My posh new stepmother
drawled with rounded vowels.
Stank.
Scent heavy, sickly.
Eventually I understood
it overlaid
the reek of spirits.
Stout stomach;
fluttery, floral
afternoon-tea-party frocks.
She stole the dress
Mum bought me,
sold it for charity.
(Someone saw.)
Hid my most treasured books
under the hedge
to rot in the rain.
Blamed my little brother.
Yes,
she was mad.
I’m alive, she’s dead.
[Poem #65]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
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