CLAIRE BOOKER, The Bone That Sang, 

Student Clinic

Mrs Nkumbo sits astride our scrutiny

in a burst of canary yellow crépe de chine.

Her pleats are impeccable.

Her collar starched to meringue stiffness.

Perched on her head, a hat

which at any moment may burst into song.

Mrs Nkumbo’s eyes are calm shades of brown.

They reduce us to specks:

white coats, white faces in eager rows.

We are the brass buttons which hold her in.

Her handbag watches us from the floor

with its gold, bright clip.

Mrs Nkumbo answers questions

with a gush of wit, a gurgle, a lyre bird’s call;

graciously lets us chew

on her delicate pathologies. We learn 

that she has carried six children in the extinct

uterus beneath her hands.

Mrs Nkumbo owns a full set of tonsils,

wisdom teeth and haemorrhoids – red rags to our bull.

This will be her moment of posterity.

We probe our quarry:

Do they itch? Interrupt evacuation?

Disturb intercourse?

Mrs Nkumbo’s smile

is a lizard’s walk on hot sand.

Her back flattens its thoracic curve.

Her chair becomes a throne from which to observe

a dozen pairs of supplicant eyes crying out

for sacrifice.

Mrs Nkumbo uncrowns herself,

bestows her hat with reverence to the seat.

Court shoes turn behind the screen,

soft smudge of feet, then rustling,

splashes, latex snap.

She is instructed to turn on her side.

Mrs Nkumbo’s silence is a vast and shoreless lake.

We gape like fishes on a slab of ice –

take note of findings, differentials, sequelae.

Nearly done now, Mrs Nkumbo. Nearly done.

On the chair, her hat is a blazing sun

that never sets.

Further details

TOM RUDD, i am a thing of rough edges, 

at the same time

i'm sat at the foot of your hospital bed.

the world seems to be

moving in slow motion

but at the same time far too quick

nurses patrol and patients moan

machines beep and doctors drawl

about non-invasive operations,

and you beg to be knocked out

because you can't face yet another procedure.

i'm on the train home and

i don't know what to do but

at the same time i know that

i'm going to lose myself in wine

and bad thoughts and just try to

get through the night in one piece.

i'm not sure if i can,

but at the same time, i have to.

we're at the hospice now.

you were well enough to get out

of hospital but at the same time

still need a watchful eye and

someone to make meals for you

and you're so tired all the time

but it's ok, you can sleep through

our visits because you need to.

i'm just happy to keep you company.

you said you don't want me there

at the end, and that's... ok. it is.

but at the same time i don't think

that we've written a good enough end

to our story, i don't think

i've said everything i want to say but

at the same time

i don't think i'll get that chance.

Further details

J. C. M. Hepple, An Alternative View

Waking on a Winter Morning

Brushing your hair made sparks

and a soft tearing sound

like cattle grazing nearby.

You were always up early

and stood dressing gowned

making smooth wide arcs

with the hair brush

as though drawing light

and peace out of your head

sweeping, so that it spread

by this gentle rite

till the whole world was awash

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PHIL VERNON, Poetry After Auschwitz,

Poetry after Auschwitz

‘Poetry is pointless – like kicking a stone’

- overheard at a poetry reading

At the start and the end of this long, straight road:

a silent child, a house in flames,

a leafless tree, an empty town

He kicks a stone to watch it leap

and skitter on the flattened clay,

then slow and stall and go to ground

Along the forest edge stand those

he's failed to save: he sings his song;

his unknown patrons hear no sound

and yet he feels their silence deep

beneath his feet, and sees beyond

the tree, the child, the house, the town

Further details

JOHN GERARD FAGAN, Fish Town

Kobe Zoo

thousands of monkeys crammed into a cage

people were all slapping the cage

making the monkeys scream and curl up into the centre

Tsuki joined in with the cage slapping in a fit of giggles

there was a bear in an enclosure no bigger than a couch

an elephant and giraffe glued to an ash pitch together

she loved it there

hated the Chinese

wouldn’t wear anything or eat anything made in China

it was poison

they were all poison

every single one of them

Tsuki

she had beautiful name

I’ll give her that.

Further details