Poetry
Scraps
by Bernadette Hall
The scrap angels were always like this,
the upper torsos of plump baby girls
with chubby elbows, their hands
curled back against their necks
like petals, the fingers curved softly.
Relaxed, they give a little questioning
frown as they look towards the camera.
They had thick fair curls, pink cheeks,
moist blue eyes, cupid mouths,
those edible angels, as sweet as scallops.
Little white barred feathers
sprouted from their roundy shoulders
like flags, like the tailfeathers
of Canada geese. We used to swap them,
we’d stick them in our scrapbooks
with flour and water paste.
We’d make moue mouths in the mirror
because we wanted to be just like them,
beautiful, smiling, obedient children of God.
Pure, and if it was at all possible, blonde.
