by Damaris West

The dame was ninety-nine, never reached
a hundred, or hatched the balled-up tissue egg
on the blue cushion of her chair.

It was serious business being my parents’ child.
I had a folding table, a wire tray
and a fat crayon, blue one end and red

the other. First: strings of loops like paper dolls.
Then croquet hoops between parallel bars.
Columns. Carrying and borrowing. Queuing

for ticks or crosses but the queue
could be dismissed for talking
to start again. Life was arbitrary.

Sometimes a gold star and a boiled sweet
from a jar, fishing for green.
Twenty-five stars meant a two-and-sixpenny token

that bought an artificial flower in Eden Lilley.
But stars could be “crossed off.”
At break in the basement kitchen –

a plastic cup of milk
and squashed-fly biscuits – there were
poppies in a vase. One drooping petal

dropped. I was accused.
Oh, the agony of forfeiture.
The grievance.

Note: Dame schools were a phenomenon of the UK, in which a sole lady teacher taught young children, often in her own home, concentrating on the 3Rs.

Originally from England where she worked variously as a librarian, tutor, and director of a tuition agency, Damaris West now lives near the sea in south-west Scotland. Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications such as Snakeskin, The Lake, Dreich, Blue Unicorn, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and The Friday Poem, and has been placed in several national or international competitions. Her debut pamphlet is due to appear next year with Yaffle Press. Her website is damariswest.site123.me.