I didn’t know you
but I’d seen the photos in Hello,
believed in the bloom
of your body next to
your sons’ downy skin.

I breathed the fragrance
of your motherhood
as you exalted breast feeding
on This Morning
and silenced Katie Hopkins.

I loved the sassy, savvy,
baby-toting grace of you
though sleepless nights
shadowed your cheekbones
and I ached to hug you the way

I’d hugged my daughter
five years earlier; wanted
to walk your boys around the park
while you chilled on the sofa
with a tub of chocolate Haagen-Dazs.

I thought you’d make it
despite the bitter-sweetness
of your last Instagram post-
you in your Mum’s arms
when she was still golden.

I didn’t know you
but I couldn’t believe you’d return
to familiar ghosts,
lift the lid to your heroin stash
and reach inside.

Sheila Jacob was born and raised in Birmingham and lives with her husband in N.E.Wales. Since 2013 she’s had poems published in various U.K. magazines and webzines including One Hand Clapping and Atrium. In 2019 she self-published a small pamphlet of poems about her father’s short life and working-class upbringing.