Last night, I dreamt,
I dropped bright soap into sewage,
so straddled dark manhole,
drew out with bucketed fingers
that bled ink - without smell
though liquid was blood-sticky,
that luminous oblong
rode on rafted hands; the colour
of a bath-time duck,
I knew it for the rough soap
of my childhood, ironic* in its name –
bright star in Midnight's maw –
and I suppose, it's possible also
the soap I'd rescued could be that
which haunts you, so,
Dad*.
~
*The soap's brand name was Sunlight Soap.
*My father was placed in a forced labour camp when 15. The soap they were given was made of human lard.
YOU ARE READING
Barbed Wire
PoetryBarbed Wire reflects ironically (I hope) on the different roles of barbed wire - from its practical uses on a farm to the experiences of my father while he was incarcerated in a forced labour camp. It also questions how barbed wire might view itsel...
