J V Birch, Venus

How to handle diagnosis

Think the worst when the doctor calls you. Practise
your drama queen skills. Relax when she says it could
be one of several things. See the specialist and know
the worst. Keep listening after you hear it. Control
your tears when being examined / biopsied / patched
up. Drive home in silence with your husband; note
how he grips the steering wheel, how far you can turn
your head. Make a cup of tea and cook the pork chops
you’ve defrosted. Cry again when you’re then told
it’s spread. Find your husband who’s outside grouting
the wall; hold each other. Become calm; plant daisies,
keep your hair appointment, suggest cocktails
at the beach. Decide how to tell family; curse the miles
between you. And when a friend texts you’re strong,
you’ve got this, break down in the walk-in robe.

Further details

Pratibha Castle, A Triptych of Birds and a Few Loose Feathers

Padraig – Who Drove the Snakes Out of Ireland

At the allotment, daddy

forked the crumbly black earth 

till the air quaked

with anticipation of excess, 

me sifting stones 

in search of treasure;

the robin sat, pert,

on the lip of the bucket meant 

to carry spuds or cabbages,

the occasional giggle-tickle carrot 

back to placate the mammy. 

The bird’s eye bright 

with a lust for worms,

his song a crystal cataract 

of merry; though none 

of the seeds we sowed 

ever showed head 

out of the sly earth 

and we saw nothing 

of the slow worm 

daddy promised so that,

his name being Padraig too,

I guessed he must be a saint, especially 

when he himself vanished. 

Though he turned up

months later 

at the end of school 

again and again and again 

till I had to tell the mammy 

where the books and toys came from 

and that got me sent off

to board at St. Bridget’s convent 

where the head nun was nice to you 

if your mammy gave her fruit cake 

in a tin, bottles of orange linctus sherry, 

a crocheted shawl like frothy cobwebs, 

none of which my mammy could afford,

Padraig having banished more than snakes.

Further details

Chella Courington, Lynette’s War

Mama’s Orchid

girl, just look at that flower

all green and yellow

swimming together

spilling

over the edge

like rainbow sherbet

mama made in july

and spooned into glass cups

that slipped

from our sticky hands

crashing

on the black and white

linoleum she laid

when too old

to bear children

just look at those petals

fringed in lavender

a feather boa

she tossed

over her shoulder

cascading

down a satin back

saturday nights

as daddy dipped her

to radio blues

with us praying

for long legs

and to stay up past nine

when ella and billie

brought it on home

never cared for real orchids

those hothouse types

too busy

being fussed over

still don't bloom

like that purple flower

mama loved

to wear on her birthday

and afterward

stored in the icebox

till petals turned brown

Further details