Queuing at Miss Pope's desk

to have our cross-stitch checked,

we made daring needlework of our fingers

in moss green and golden brown.

More thrilling than those woven squares

where you followed the holes,

no piercing involved.

We were desperadoes, raising the stakes

by sewing ourselves to our jumpers,

to the pages of our jotters,

to each other.

Like firewalkers, or sleepers on beds of nails,

we vied and swaggered:

see my magic,

look how brave I am,

I never make a fuss.

Except the new girl,

weeping through clenched teeth,

hand embroidered with blood.

Learning what it means

to try too hard.

From Hard Water Cape Poetry £8

The Poetry Book Society recommends

If you enjoy the poetry of Jean Sprackland why not try Minsk by Lavinia Greenlaw, The Heel of Bernadette by Colette Bryce and Poems 1960-2000 by Fleur Adcock.