Two Poems by Caroline Smith

Gift

The Kesar mangoes are angled in a box
in their orange diamond stretched vests.
I hold one up in my palm,
peel puckered skin and shave off slivers
down to the wispy stone.
It is wet and tufted as a shaken dog
plastered hair clinging to thin bone.
I take through a bowl and fork
and tuck a towel around his neck.
He rises forward from his bed
like a carp in an ornamental pond
where they hang from the surface,
orange robed monks, hoop mouths open wide.
I lay a wafer of mango on his tongue.

Listening

Each time I speak to the Home Office
about the KIU/arrivals stuck in the local Budget Plaza,
an advert for the hotel pops up on my phone.

It’s the one I booked my parents into
for the wedding, before my father had a stroke.
I’d taken them as close as I could,

they’d struggled from the car over the paved mall
wheeling their huge suitcases. Returning, I found them
waiting by the self-check-in of the deserted foyer.

They couldn’t get the knack
of catching down the key card to unclasp
the heavy fire doors or open the lift.

They moved so slowly along the eighth-floor corridor
every bend turning into another long passage of doors
each lit above with a dim lantern.

The small room with the sealed window had no phone
and as I settled them, my mother had asked.
“Will anyone know we’re here?”

Note: KIU = Kent Intake Unit

Caroline Smith was born in Ilford and studied Sculpture at Goldsmiths College. She lives and works in Wembley. her most recent poetry book, The Immigration Handbook, published by Seren, was shortlisted for the Ted Hughes Award. It was translated into Italian in 2020 and published by edizioni dell'asino. Smith has been widely published in journals such as Poetry Review, Agenda, Acumen, and The Spectator.