Crayons

By Barney Harper

For my sister - a hospital pharmacist

As children we played Doctors and Nurses
we’ve been drawing them in crayon 
since we were three. 
But we didn’t play Pharmacists
mistaking them for shop assistants
in Boots, selling vitamins
and nappy rash cream.

At three when I drew my big sister 
I drew her curly hair, 
in yellow spirals 
that I wished I had.
I drew her bigger than me.
I drew my little stick arm holding hers.

Then, the mother we share 
was a pink triangle
with a smiling circle at the top. 

Now, the language we share 
is sisterly ribbing.
We speak sarcasm, not sincerity.

So I don’t say I’m scared
to see her yellow curls
squashed beneath the straps
of masks and goggles. 
I don’t say I’m proud, 
though I’m bursting.

Today I would draw her in ink 
still bigger than me 
(though my body has outgrown hers)
still looking up at her 
(though I’m taller)
and hope that my picture would tell her
what I can’t find the words to say. 

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Written Word ‘Heart’ poems