Home #Blue Nib Issues Issue 42 | July 2020 | Scottish poet, Pippa Little

Scottish poet, Pippa Little

I WAS SO OLD WHEN I WAS NOT A WOMAN

People thought my father drank: he never said

it was my mother

who stuck like moss to dark places.

She gives us wipes for the train

to wash away the sticky fingerprints of strangers.

We descend from Ward 4 in a dark box

without him. Street level

says the final sign.

He is a crane-fly, hurt

and folded. He forgets

he once walked like other fathers.

I can make him strong,

afraid of nothing. That’s not true.

I...

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