Jo Hemmant
Jo Hemmant spent many years working as a journalist
and editor. She was brought up in the North of England
and has lived in Italy, Holland and Hong Kong. She
began writing poetry the day her youngest son started
school. Her work has appeared online at qarrtsiluni,
blossombones, blue fifth
review and Canopic Jar and
has appeared in or is upcoming at the journals Equinox,
South, Decanto, Dream
Catcher, Fire and Obsessed
with Pipework. She lives with her husband, her two sons,
aged eight and six and a menagerie in the burbs outside
London. Last year she co-founded ouroboros
review,
a poetry and art journal that appears both online and
in print, and set up Pindrop Press, a small independent
poetry press. The first book is due off the presses
next February.
Down our road
At twilight the women go out
into the brewing dark.
Backs to their houses, arms folded
against a reminder of their hearts,
they cool like the cups of tea
there’s never time to drink hot.
No-one turns to speak.
Faces blank as mannequins,
they stand as if mesmerised
by some Svengali
with a pendulum fob watch
pacing the back path.
After a minute or two,
they tilt their heads,
discover the first star’s out
bright as a naked bulb
and the day runs off their backs like water,
seeps into the ground.
No wife of mine
He ropes her to the bedhead
like the bait in an elaborate trap, says
I’ll make sure you’re
so tired
you won’t want to go to work.
The overhead light preaches
his version of the truth
as he beats her feet
with the ostrich feather duster stocking filler
he bought her last year.
Every couple of hours he climbs on,
breath whisky-warm,
to stick her like a voodoo doll.
At seven he unties her, asks
You learned your lesson yet?
She picks out her softest shoes
with cushioned soles,
a smart skirt.
© 2009
Salt Publishing Limited