STEPHANIE BROWN draws attention to the hidden labour of the female embroiderers, and how a 19th century replica made no such error
Ending It
Jill Abram
Today I didn’t send the children to their room
as knots formed in my belly
at the sound of your key in the door
I didn’t scan for warning signs in your eyes
on your breath, how you moved,
cover bruises with make-up and lies
I didn’t grill your pork chop just-so
smooth every lump from your mash
for you to throw the plate across the room
I didn’t bounce off the wall from the fist
I didn’t see coming, feel your hands
around my throat, lose my breath
I didn’t pretend to be asleep as you came up to bed
hoping you wouldn’t drag me out by my hair
get in with me to do worse
I didn’t bleed from my busted nose
losing our baby which you kicked out of me
yelling that it wasn’t yours.
Last night I put a knife under my pillow.
Tomorrow I will hold my head up.
The bard invites readers to a gig, raps for Clacton, and lays out the Burnham-Hurzeler conundrum
by Rosie Jackson
ANDY CROFT welcomes the publication of an anthology of recent poems published by the Morning Star, and hopes it becomes an annual event
RUTH AYLETT reviews two collections of outright political poetry


