Three Poems by Sheila Jacob An Angel In Your Sleep After John Burnside She went peacefully,tucked inside her bedclothes,the paramedic soothed,hot water bottle at her feet. I wasn’t sure about peacefulwhen I saw you; ice-blue,in the funeral parlour.You looked surprised, indignant, as though disturbed mid-dream by the bark of a foxunder your window gashof pale gold between drawn curtains fallof white lightalong the pink hemof your pillow case before you sat up,looked around, brushed a glint of night frostoff the angel’s wing. My Summer Holiday With Marilyn Colwyn Bay 1990 I’m choosing seaside postcards and there she is, a revolving stand’s worth,as though no holiday’s complete without Marilyn, mouth wide open, eyes half closed, body on the brink of earth-moving orgasms. I leave the gift shop,hurry to the beach with my family.Marilyn melts like candy flossuntil I remember high summer, 1962.News on my parent’s wireless.Marilyn. Overdose. Probable suicide. We buy sticks of peppermint rockand there she is again amongst photosof the pier: Warhol’s colour portrait,postcard size. Her mascara’s running,moist lips puckering –a trick of light. The sun in my eyes. Poolside parties. Secret assignations.Nembutal, Chanel No.5, silk sheets,and the coital sweat of John F. Kennedy.I think of the dress she was sewn into,its beaded marquisette trembling,straining to cup her pendulous breasts. I Took It After Julia Webb Love came on a plate and I couldn’t taste it;devoured scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, fried tomatoesand wanted more.I craved the touch of Mum’s handon my hair, my cheeks,expected a fireside chat when Mum would enter my grief,tell me she missed Dad as wellbut we’d manage, just the two of us. Weeks and months sped by.Mum stewed garden windfalls,floured her rolling pin,baked golden apple tarts.She stuffed my packed luncheswith wedges of spit-roast chicken –kitchen left-overs from the staff canteenat Lewis’s Department StoreShe caught a bus there every day,dopped off to sleep, most evenings,after she’d washed our dishes. I traipsed upstairs, began my homework,tuned in to Radio Luxembourgon my tinny transistor. Meet the Poet! Sheila Jacob was born and raised in Birmingham, and lives in Wrexham, N.E. Wales, with her husband. She has three children and five grandchildren. Her poems have been published in various U.K. magazines and webzines including, most recently, The High Window, Black Nore, Dream Catcher and Sarasvati. Her work is also included in Yaffle’s ‘Whirlagust 111’ anthology and the DragonYaffle Anthology, ‘Duff’. She is working on her first collection. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Published by fragmentedvoices A small, independent press based in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, UK, and Prague, the Czech Republic View all posts by fragmentedvoices