by Frieda Hughes
They are killing her again.
She said she did it
One year in every ten,
But they do it annually or weekly,
Some even do it daily.
Carrying her death around in their heads
And practising it. She saves them
The trouble of their own;
They can die through her
Without ever making
The decision. My mother
Is up-dug for repeat performances.
Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children. Then
It can be rewound
So they can watch her die
Right from the beginning again.
The peanut eaters, entertained
At my mother’s death, will go home,
Each carrying their memory of her,
Lifeless — a souvenir.
Maybe they’ll buy the video.
Watching someone on TV
Means all they have to do
Is press ‘pause
If they want to boil a kettle,
While my mother holds her breath on screen
To finish dying after tea.
Robin's Nest 