Eyes down, look in

a poem by Sheree Mack

We are sitting, me and Sharon, in a
four man booth. The packed Bingo hall, waiting
for the main session to begin. Eyes down
look in – when Mum comes in, after 6 months
dead. She takes an empty seat, clicks off her
markers and gets ready for prize bingo,
before and between the big money game.

We are sitting in the no smoking section.
Mum lights up and takes a deep draw, she smiles.
She’s pleased with her full head of hair, rollered
into place around her pink-beige plump face.
“3 and 6, 36.” The caller starts.
Chatting is a no-no in any game,
but Mum’s got a life time of things to tell.

“Stop all the crying, Sharon. You’ll make your
self sick. Mick’s shoulder can only take so
much. You know you’re the strength in that coupling.”
Her chastisement a change. No one seems to
notice our table. Eyes down, silently
praying that their number will be out next.
“9 and 0, top of the shop, blind 90.”

Mum’s fingers dance across the numbers, clink,
a comfort sound in the close, heavy air.
“Sheree, I’m working with you.” Her eyes never
leave her board. “Hold on, you not alone.
I’m working to bring happiness into
your life. But you’ve got to let the hurt out.”
Like coloured balls bubbling in the machine,

my grief bursts out in rounded orbs of pain.
I want to scream, you left us alone
to cope, to cope alone. My fantasies
of the prodigal daughter’s return with
babe in arms, were dashed as you slipped away
during the night.“1 and 4, 14.” “House”
Mum groans as if her life depended on

that win. She starts to line up her thick red
and blue dabbers. Not green, as green’s unlucky.
Even in death, she’s still holding out for
that big win. Not wanting to see her hopes
dashed. Not wanting to see her leaving us
again, I look away through the sea of
cigarette smoke, and half empty glasses.

Growing tomatoes in the back room

a poem by Sheree Mack

They hang in bunches
on vines, cheek to cheek,
each an orb of luminosity,

barred with claret bands
which scale the skins’
radiant segments,

like glistening rubies
in a jeweller’s window.
Shimmering, solid

globes: think baubles,
a whizzing cricket ball,
blushing plump ladies,

think sun on horizon.
Glowing, and glowing,
and not one in any way

distinct from the other
-nothing about them
of individuality. Each

a perfect fulfilment
of perfection. Your,
handy work,

you who tends them
in the hot back room which
breathes in the day’s heat.

You are relaxed here,
tending a piece
of your island at home.