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The building is white,ivy eating its way up the broken walls,windows smalland scratched.
The walls of the room are white and clean -all sign's of yesterdays sorrows scrubbedaway with bleach.
She is not here.Not beside me in bednor in the roomat all.
It has happened
We watch them, hypnotized.Pale and mysterious,They rise and fall. Joe says“They look like ghosts.”
When they were young,She kept wicket for her brothers,They batted,Bowled,Padded upAnd ratcheted up the score.She crouched behind the stumpsKeeping wicket.
When I was little
Mom would read me
a book each night
then tuck me in
and my forehead.
would be at work
My twin brother lives across the street,
once in a while, we meet to eat,
he listens to me, lets me talk,
doesn't complain and doesn't baulk,
I was born with a map of Australia on my face;it was beautiful, my mother told me – there was nobody like me in the whole wide worldwho could trace the edges of down under
My Gran was a Caribbean ladyAs Caribbean as could beShe came across to visit usIn Shoreham by the sea.
This is my story.It is mine alone because I am the one who needsto tell it.I am the one who is still here,no longer stage right but