Impossible Things by Rosamund McCullain

In the second poem chosen by our guest editor Jessie Joe Jacobs, poet Rosamund McCullain plays on the meaning of ‘scab’. Worthy words as our university staff continue to strike for their pensions.

Impossible Things

Picking that irritating scab and wondering

Can there be new skin underneath? Can

Epidermis and epiglottis renew? Repair the

Raw flayed surface, bring voice to the

Voiceless, release the scream of the downtrodden crowd,

Crushed underfoot as they scavenge for crumbs,

A blot on the shine of your Jimmy Choo shoe,

A stain on the hem of your Savile Row suit.

Yet we are human too, would dream had we the

Chance, dream of a home safe as houses,

Dream of open doors and opportunities, access

All areas, not pushed to the side, side-lined,

Side-tracked, scrabbling on our knees and having to

Fight for what you take for granted. Who is the scab?

Is it us with our different minds and bodies and our demands

For a half-decent life? Or is it you? Hoarding your piles

And power and yelling “Hands off! Hands off!”.

 

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