Sheila And Her Sister Spy 1962 Poem by Terry Collett

After school and at home,
Sheila plops on her bed.

Arms spread out,
hands open like
twigs on a tree.

Her elder sister
is downstairs
and gossiping
with her mother
about her day.

But Sheila lies there
staring at the ceiling,
eyeing a spider
in the corner,
small and black.

On the wall
above her sister's bed
is a crucifix
with a palm folded
and stuck behind
the Christ's back.

She breathes
in deeply.

Satisfied she'd seen John
at school lunchtime,
she smiles,
brings her hands
behind her head,
crosses her leg
over the other
at the ankles.

The weather stayed nice,
dry and cloudless sky.

He had noticed
she'd done her eyes
when he saw her
lunchtime.

Her mother wasn't happy
when she came in just now
and said:
what's that muck
around your eyes,
get it off.

She hasn't so far,
she would later.

John took her
onto the playing field,
they walked and talked.

She got flustered
at one point.

Would he kiss her?

He kept turning his head
to watch other boys
kick ball,
his hand not far
from mine.

I was hoping
he would hold it,
hold it near him,
but he didn't.

Talked about things:
his books,
butterflies,
what birds he's seen.

What have you done
to your eyes?
He said.

Just stuff to make them
show more I said.

Miss S told me
not to wear it again
when she told me off
after Maths.

Wanted him to kiss me;
Wanted him to kiss;
Wanted him to;
Wanted him;
Wanted.

The door opens,
her sister comes in
and says:
told Mum you were
with that boy,
she wants to talk to you.

Since when
did you become
Jesus' telltale?

Her sister looks at her,
sits on her bed,
takes up her black
bound copy
of the Bible,
opens it up
and says:
Mum's waiting
for you.

Go do
what the monkey does,
Sheila says,
and poo.