Two Poems
Selima Hill, 12 July 1990
‘“Possible titles: HAPPINESS: GRIEF: MY CROW.” That’s what it said, in tiny screwed-up handwriting that only I could follow, and maybe her mother, who wrote her the long intriguing letters I was on my word of honour not to read. We used to come up here most afternoons. Stacey would sit on her pillow, and, taking a lock of white hair between her fingers, would...