Her Girls
We do not share blood,we share memories.
A lifetime of growing together
with the closest of parents.
We ran running races, you always behind me
egging me on.
You refused to go to ballet, I missed you.
I had to take you everywhere,
my little stalker,
even on my first date,
a trip to the cinema,
he cancelled because you were there.
You, bashing me with a Scholl sandal
by the coal bunker,
made brave by the presence of your friend
and Pixie the dog.
Dancing at local discos,
practising eyeliner, shadow, mascara
until Pa said, "Take that muck off your face."
Sharing scents: 'Californian Poppy'
and one with 'Paris' in its name
in a silver-topped blue bottle
bought from Woolworths.
Pinching Ma's 'Mum' stick deodorant
that made honeyed soft stains
on her girls.
Ma saying you needed a bra
more than me, even though
you were two years younger.
We were at Burnham-on-Sea
—the hottest, burniest
holiday ever—
Nivea suntan lotioned
we stretched on the sands, hand-in-hand.
'Growing Places' (Black Pear Press, 2021)
