For my son
Late, I perch on your bed, the edge
of what my memory calls a cot,
as we speak of how the summer’s light
can heal an acned face,
the reader set for French
and how the government
has got it wrong. The thousand things
I want to say, feel I have not said,
I keep inside. A radiator gurgles;
Ali growls at Liston
from a poster tacked with pins;
Picasso’s quick-drawn birds take flight.
Suddenly I’m there, back
when you were two and bored,
when I settled down and let you fix
a hundred coloured feathers in my hair.
Lee Nash lives in France and freelances as an editorial designer for a UK publisher. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in print and online journals in the UK, the US and France including Angle, Black Poppy Review, Brittle Star, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Orbis, Poetry Salzburg Review, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The Dawntreader, The French Literary Review, The Interpreter’s House, The Journal (UK), The Lake and The World Haiku Review. You can find a selection of Lee’s poems on her website: leenashpoetry.com.
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