"... a crinkling of humour hatches there
the moment before a full smile ..."

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Jill recommends these on line literary sites.

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Jill Battson

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Jill Battson

Rose Detail in Green Daylight

A thumbtack of thickened paint here
shiny, almost wet
red
the mouths of wartime women
a rose in its attitude of the tribal
paint layer upon layer
          by knocking the edge of raw pastry with a blunt knife
          we make it flaky, tectonic
as oil paint worked on glass
opacity of the ages
my mother built lipsticks
in the warm blue kitchen of our 50's childhood
from the necessity of making ends meet
circular housekeeping
scraping out the unswivelable ends from their metal casings
melting together the crimson wax slowly
like liquid chocolate to sculpt Valentine day roses
mother's mouth smell of red, of gloss
a kissable melt in a white porcelain bowl over boiling water
blood and roses, life and death
and pouring it back into a solitary tube
           on cooling the lipstick, twirled up, is the geographic complexity
           of smooshed lava, contained clay
or red oil paint
layered by knife onto a surface that gives good structure
hers is the frugality of economy
a thin layer of red accentuating the cushiony sensual
the paint, a gesture of abundance
endless metal tube of pigmented oil
extravagance built up onto the surface
closeted acid wax aroma tang
offerings that are both gorgeous and spiteful.





What happened after the photograph was taken

In the photograph my father is in love with me
the bridge of his large nose rubs the smooth skin of my baby forehead
his eyes fixed on my mine, a crinkling of humour hatches there
the moment before a full smile
he is wearing a thinly stripped shirt underneath a ribbed sweater
           - I remember the smell of his sweaters, wood, wool and father
in the photograph I have the same ear shape as him
but it'll be years until I grow into the chin, the jaw
the way his long face flattens across the cheekbone
his foreshortened top lip and large bottom lip
           - kissable, like a saxophonist's, my mother said
I love that face in a narcissistic reflection
it's the late 50's, his hair is short, sideburns long
my baby fluff hair showing red even in the black and white photograph
           - he carried a lock of it in his wallet until I was in my twenties
the photograph ends below our chins, my mother instead of hacking off heads
frames low so there is much space above us
makes the picture surreal and crooked
an isolated feel of summer in England
him and me in the world
in the photograph waves break on an almost deserted beach
a spit or pier lolls out into the sea on the horizon
and a lady beside steps and behind a windbreak attempts a tan
a tap bound to a wooden post grows out of my father's left shoulder

The photograph sits on my desk and reminds me of loss
nobody can tell me where it was taken, what time of the day or year
who was there, what they spoke of
I don't know what happened after it was taken
I expect my sister was there in the background
with her thirteen year old pout
there was probably a striped windbreak, some wooden deckchairs
a primus stove brewing up tea
a child's spade and bucket
my mother wore white sandals
her hair curled like the queen's
after the photograph was taken my father probably sat me on his lap
I expect he stroked my skin, encouraged me to grasp his finger in my fist
wondered at this tiny miracle in his non-verbal way
what happened after the photograph was taken was this:
thirty seven years later he was dead.