My Mother’s Nighties
After each hospital visit
I carry home a bag of nighties-
rose pink prints
warm enough
for the ward’s grey chill
soft enough
to cradle old bones.
The bag sits by my washing basket.
She has given me instructions
as only a mother dares –
Make sure you hand wash,
cold rinse, hang them in the shade.
Sometimes, exhausted,
I toss them in the machine,
pray her fingers will not sense
these small betrayals.
The doctor lifts her nightie
probes with slow hands
- another lump
this time her abdomen.
Blanket over stick shoulders
she is wheeled to radiation.
He says it will help –
slow down the process
ease the pain
for now.
On my line
by the warm brick wall
I peg her nighties.
Filled by spring breezes
they flap and twirl
in a floral dance
until – as the day wanes
I reach for them where they hang
flat, drained and still.
This is a beautiful, thoughtful poem. The italicised lines wonderfully bring the well mother into our minds. The poet’s lightly humorous, tender sleight of hand (‘These small betrayals’) emphasise the daughter’s grief and bring it, earned, to our hearts. The poet’s use of metaphor stuns in the last line, collecting all the themes together: the nighties, the linen, the washing, the body, the illness, the mother—and death. Fantastic.
Judge: Jennifer Harrison Poet.
| Virginia Danahay |
Highly Commended |
| Natalie Cincotta | Commended |
| Nicole McGregor | Commended |
| Ray Wilson | Commended |