This belly, slack now and ridged with birth’s silverfish
Once a girl’s flat plane, soon rounded
When crimson seeks the woman
Giving life, the belly must stretch and swell
Pink red purple lines describing the taut contours
Each body its own chronicle
I tick the box for white
But the vivid truth can’t be contained
Skin turned gold by summer sun
Betrays the memory of Roman bones
Green eyes an Irish echo
A crown paled to grey, once a chestnut glow
White, but not of flag or nation
Incised with history’s shame
I own it but can’t undo it
And never know the pain you carry
Your truth and mine uneasy blend
Will our colours clash or meld?
My body is its own historic fable
Can you read it on me?
Hands with veins like wrinkled blue worms
An old scar, pale, a sliver of silver moon
Brown spots, purporting ancient wisdom
And red blood to prove I live
About the Creator
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Facts about the Cuckoo
Facts about the Cuckoo By all reasonable bets, the baby should have put in an appearance on Sunday 16th June. The girl was already overdue by nearly a week and while knitting a pair of green and white bootees, she set her kitchen alight. It wasn’t exactly her fault (so she told herself afterwards), although it was her job to cook Sunday dinner. Her father had bought them an electric cooker, but it was from bankrupt stock, part of a dumped load of American ovens used previously by the U.S. army in wartime (surely not the second world war? the oven looked like a 50s design. Korea? Maybe, but how did it end up in Swansea?) Anyway, her dad had bought it for £2 and it looked good: clean, with a lot of impressive knobs and a grill, but with only three oven settings, high, low and in between; worse still, it lacked a thermostat. That meant that on the occasions when they could afford to buy a couple of lamb chops or some sausages, she needed to be in the kitchen watching the food cook, and turning the oven off and on, off and on, in order to stop it getting too hot. On that sunny summer’s day, she neglected to stay put. Instead, with an aching back and the need to put her feet up, she sat too long in her living room, concentrating on making her baby’s tiny boots. She hadn’t had a lot of knitting experience but was determined to get it right. Just because she was a pregnant teenager didn’t mean she was a hopeless case and she wanted to prove that. But when she went to check on the lamb chops and saw the smoke, she felt as useless as you could ever feel – and frightened too.
By Bernadette Casey5 years ago in Families
📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 01/22/2026
Our “Raise Your Voice Threads” are hosted most alternating Thursdays at 12PM ET to offer creators more avenues to uncover exceptional stories on Vocal. As we are continuously searching for fresh creators and inspiring stories, this thread provides an opportunity to exchange and discuss the stories that have moved and motivated us on Vocal.
By Raise Your Voice by Vocal5 days ago in Resources
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