THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2015

Sandra Burnett

HER MOTHER BLAMES JACKSON POLLOCK

Matilda thinks she lives under the sea
and when she is laid on her park bench,
looking up at the sky, her suns, moons
and stars are explosions of gloss.

Matilda thinks the lads that call her Bitch
are rubber ducks who will be lost to waves
even though they don’t hurt her.
Sometimes they give her beer.

Matilda believes the whoosh she hears
is you and me, scudding past. She thinks
we are landfill being shoved this way and that,
‘til we finally join a mass in the Pacific.

Matilda is searching for a wall
where she will paint her thoughts.
She has rescued two five-litre cans,
blue and yellow, from a skip.

Matilda will call her painting Fathom.



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