By Jan Price

Once,

when I was four

you carried me home

on your shoulders

over a long bridge.

Once,

you and I sang

The Anniversary Song

together

in somebody’s kitchen.

Once,

I showed you

a hillside of pure yellow

and you didn’t say

‘Daisy-weeds’

in Latin.

Once,

I asked you why

your eyebrows frowned

and knitted in the rain – you said

they shaped a veranda

to stop your eyes getting wet.

Once,

I said

if I sat still for the rest of my life

I wouldn’t commit sin –

you said

doing nothing is a sin.

Once,

only in this moth-eaten church

on this skin shrinking

grave day

where three thin mourners sit

shivering a fool in their eyes –

I will speak

of hunger.

Image by Christian Widell