It’s the knife angel, larger than death, 
that’s summoned us here in the rain. 
Splendid wings of rusty blunted blades 
turn blue / red / green against the Civic Hall,
while a youth, cycling by, yells waste of money.
In St Andrew’s, John Piper’s stained glass 
of the Passion is another Guernica: 
instruments of torture, hands tearing out 
Christ’s hair, Malchus’ severed ear. 
The Blitz still here, eighty years on, churches 
stranded at roundabouts, missing roofs, axed trees.
It’s almost a relief to find Beryl Cook at the Box, 
her plumped-up bodies the same balloons 
I saw on naughty seaside postcards as a child: 
women’s backsides the size of sofas, melon breasts. 
Everyone’s laughing, shaking off the rain
and gloom like dogs coming out of the sea.
She liked painting wide figures, she said. 
It gave her less background to fill.  

Rosie Jackson lives in Teignmouth, Devon. Recently published in Acumen, Aftershock Review, and Mslexia, her collections include Love Leans over the Table (Two Rivers Press, 2023). 
Poetry submissions to [email protected]