Sunflower
You meet all sorts in the prison creative writing group.
Last week a girl called Sunflower. She was new.
I wasn’t even sure what she was in for – you never ask.
At first it was the same old, same old, I’ve always wanted
to write the story of my life.

There was something about the way she was sitting,
stooped and awkward like tall girls do
who have low self-esteem.

A hot day and we were all drowsy,
Sunflower in particular, her large head drooping,
lolling forwards. I got her some water, wondered
how I could broach the idea of posture
without her being offended.

She slouched into her chair, pushing back on two legs
like a disconsolate child, started to pick at the spiral
of strange coloured spots around her face.
I’m going to seed, she said. Look at me.

So we just talked. It happens like that sometimes.
I talked a bit about Yoga and how it is an excellent
way to improve one’s deportment. She told me
she wished she’d never been born.

I hope next time I come back as a daisy, she said.
Little kids would love to weave me into necklaces.

She became a bit raucous then,
a bit too carried away with possibilities.
I flung her out onto the path by the drugs testing unit,
told her she needed to learn self-control, to build up
her social skills, be more of a team player.

I told her it wasn’t always a good thing
To constantly have her head in the clouds.

 Published in ‘Stolen Rowan Berries’