You never know how things really are in other people’s families, in other people’s homes. There’s the public face and the private truths – the personal griefs and tragedies, whether festering or resting in peace. In her wry, engagingly strange poems, Anne Bailey takes the door off the latch and lets us inside.
She shows us loss and disappointment, as well as hardness and resilience, particularly through the eyes of a daughter, wife and mother. We see the domestic sphere in such close-up detail that it becomes bizarre, an uncanny dimension that nonetheless rings horribly, weirdly true.
«So you’ve put a picture on the lovely blank wall

that used to go pink in the sun

and feel like an ice cream.

A wall on which I used to rest my eyes

in pleasant contemplation.»

– from ‘Domestic’