Denise Riley

It sits with itself in its arms. Out of

the depth of its shame it starts singing

a hymn of pure shame, surging in the throat.

To hold a true note could be everything.

Getting the hang of itself would undo it.

What is the first duty of a mother to a child?

At least to keep the wretched thing alive – Band

Of fierce cicadas, stop this shrilling.

My daughter lightly leaves our house.

The thought rears up: fix in your mind this

Maybe final glimpse of her. Yes, lightning could.

I make this note of dread, I register it.

Neither my note nor my critique of it

Will save us one iota. I know it. And.

Time took your love – now time will take its time.

‘Move on’, you hear, but to what howling emptiness?

The kinder place is closest to your dead

where you lounge in confident no-motion, no thought

of budging. Constant in analytic sorrow, you abide.

It even makes you happy when you’re feeling blue.

Jump up, jump back. Flail on the spot.

I can disprove this ‘moving on’ nostrum.

Do the loco-motion in my living room.

This poem contains brief excerpts from the lyrics to ‘The Loco-Motion’, words and music by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, originally performed by Eva Boyd as Little Eva.

I’ve lived here dead for decades – now you

pitch up gaily among us shades, with your

freshly dead face all lit up, beaming – but

after my long years without you, don’t think

it will be easy. It’s we dead who should run

whispering at the heels of the living, yet you

you’d put the frighteners on me, ruining

the remains of your looks on bewailing me

not handling your own last days with spirit.

Next you’ll expect me to take you around

introducing some starry goners. So mother

do me proud and hold your white head high.

On earth you tried, try once again in Hades.