The Cygnet
by Lee Nash

the coffin’s too small,
ghost-white, topped with bumblebee roses
and a bewildered teddy bear

hard to believe a child is inside,
inside her, a tumour

so much grief,
it’s impossible to tell which one is Mummy

until I spot her,
the wet slags of her eyes unmistakeable,
her slack weight supported from behind like a vice
by her new man,
a smudge of tattoo fresh on his Adam’s apple--

fluffy unicorns
with multicoloured Mohicans
poke out of handbags
and half-zipped bomber jackets

and instead of Saint-Saëns’ Le Cygne
that the priest asked me to play,
with its breves that give me brain-strain

instead of my warm breath through the flute,
the boombox coughs out Puisque Tu Pars

which is perfect

I didn’t know or love her,
could have fluffed my performance--

facing the pews of stricken faces,
this poverty of wallets and spirits,
I must seem as pious and indifferent
as these frigid Catholic statues--

as the mourners filter out,
virtue brushing shoulders with revolt

to my shame,
I realise my lids aren’t damp
and I haven’t even Saint Peter’s faith
to raise a young girl from the dead

though I want so badly to slum it,
to cook her favourite meal of spaghetti,
watch her suck the life from each strand,
her faded slogan stained with sauce

I’m No Angel
But I’ve Got Wings

(The 2022 Victorina Press Vo(i)ces Poetry Contest, Special Mention; Vo(i)ces II, Stories of Life, Death and Beyond, anthology, Victorina Press, 2024)

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