Mrs D

i carried your name
in my pocket
the day after
you died

i had peeled
it off your door
mrs d
room number fifteen
black letters
printed by a machine
on a transparant
background

heart matters
eighty nine
don’t leave me alone
you said

every
single
shift

i thank you
for your shine

Poetry collection: The Care Home

When people say “not all heroes wear capes”, we sinfully imagine no cape at all. But here, Rebecca shows us that the forgotten heroes do wear capes; they just wear them back to front and call themselves nurses as they wipe away a variety of bodily fluids. Their job is not saving the world or anything near as glamorous or self-indulgent; it is bloody and it is gruesome. It is work we have trouble stomaching; saving dying people from the fear of their own demise.

The Care Home is as honest a portrayal of life as you will ever get. There is no glory or fame, just the stark realization that you are dying and you are lucky enough to do so not watching death tick another life away, day in and day out. – Mickey Finn, Author of ‘Golden.’

‘The Care Home’ is the fourth collection of poetry by Certified Carer and poet Rebecca Rijsdijk.

Small Town Dying

on monday
we are hungover from
that weekend
when we lived

on tuesday
we wash our car
because god forbid
the car next door
shines harder

on wednesday
we mow the lawn
and throw the apples
back over the hedge

on thursday we pay
our taxes and fuck our wives
because this needs to happen
once a month

on friday we eat fish
and i think jesus
had something to do
with that

on
saturday
we die

Violated

he looks like
an army vet
like in one of those
american movies
we watched

pilot glasses
porn moustache
trucker cap

he rides a mobility
scooter
and his wife rides one
too
while his granddaughter
bounces up and down
a makeshift trolley

i wear a sleeveless shirt
and he looks at me
with that disgusting man face
some of them make
while his wife complains
about the weather

Lilith

you come into my house
and tell me what to feel
as you wipe your feet on
my furniture
and shit
on my rug

you come into my house
and call me names
like whore
medusa
and lilith

when it was HIM
who was married
when i met him

(on wednesdays we smash
the patriarchy)

you come into my house
and tell me
to take responsibility
for your feelings
like i don’t have plenty
of my own

you come into my house
and tell me i am too
much of everything

too angry
too loud
too negative
too proud

you tell me
that my dishes are dirty
and my unwashed knickers
offend you

the devil blinks first here
and still
you come into my house