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Thelma Laycock

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The Sash

Second Light Poetry Competition 2008 SHORTLISTED

I stood outside Tick Owens’ store;
never turned around, saw them in the glass pane.
The reservation bus pulled in,
they got out, waiting for the city connection.
Patsy and Dude stayed back with the bags,
Saskia came towards me, put her arm across my shoulder.
My eyes filled, the window a split diamond,
never turned around.
‘Goin’ Minn’apolis,’ she said,
‘make a little money, raise a little hell’.
She walked away, her sandals undone, clacking;
the Greyhound drew in, pulled out, they were gone.

At home my Mom remembered flour and shortening;
I was back at the store in minutes,
the overhead awning flapping like big buzzard wings.
I passed the bus stop, taking off my shoes,
putting my feet where Saskia’s were,
electricity striking up my legs.
Her sash was on the ground,
green and yellow leaves secured against beadwork.
I pressed it to my heart, cheek, lip;
it was still warm, full of the smell of her,
salt and sweat, sweetgrass,
and the skin grease Indians use.

Tick gave me an extra brown bag
to hide it from the unforgiving rain.

 

Competition judged by Gillian Clarke

Page(s) 31

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