She holds his body in her arms, the body she holds is a man's body beard still growing, skin leathered toenails strong but chipped from walking muscles and sinews even now defined beautiful, rigid, withdrawing into marble. There were harsh words between them he grew up and away from her intolerant of her not understanding; she turned also, hid her hurt stored it along with the joyful memories, the innocence, all her service. She can remember his boy's body the child's face, clear, unblemished, his smooth brown skin sparkling with water drops, how she held him and dried him, how he relaxed against her when he was still hers.
This poem is reprinted with permission from Kathleen McPhilemy’s new collection Back Country (Littoral Press, Sudbury 2022), reviewed in this issue. Her previous poetry collections include Witness to Magic (Hearing Eye, London 1990), A Tented Peace (Katabasis, London 1995) and The Lion in the Forest (Katabasis 2004). She is a retired FE teacher living in Oxford. She runs the online audio poetry magazine Poetry Worth Hearing: anchor.fm/kathleen-mcphilemy with texts and more information: www.poetryworthhearing.biz