Rosalind

carried a sunflower

on the school bus, low sun

igniting her hair, a single ringlet

springing onto her forehead.

 

My diary says

she wore a ‘forlorn look’

but my brain meant ‘forelock’

and I was confusing myself.

 

She called me to the back seat

once, and said her boyfriend

who just got out of prison

broke down last night, stoned,

 

and she funnelled petrol

with her hands. ‘I wouldn’t let you

do that’, I thought. And today

through a shop window

 

I saw her. She looked tired.

She’d cut her hair, instead

of a flower she carried

that thug’s bald child.

© Sam Riviere 2006