You were ‘mom’ and I was ‘dad’
And my stuffed plush toys
Stood in for our children.
We did what parents did and do
And soon you said it was time for bed.

We laid down and you,
You pulled my face near
And pressed my lips to yours
And held me
So that I could not move.

I stayed put.

You were older after all,
I looked up to you.
But then you took my fingers
Into your mouth
And down your Tinkerbell *******
To lead me inside yourself.

I pulled back, I think,
But you threatened to tell,
To get me in trouble for something,
It’s hazy, I can’t remember now.

So you kept my fingers
Trapped in you,
No matter the complaints
Or the moist cheeks.
You made them travel and discover
More than I ever wanted them to.

the days you wish you could skip filled with
feelings you want to numb away from or even worse actually
manage to
fill yourself with the numbness of ignoring sunlight
and not noticing touch
and not enjoying the soft things
the gentle things
the faint outlines of day smeared with shadows
and caffeine-soaked eyelids -
I can't tell the difference between open and closed
I can't remember the reasons for doing
keep moving, keep going
prioritize staying awake and bypassing
the things that conjure smiles and
the smiles
and the things that cause inquiry
and inquiry is seeking life?
bypassing life
taking steps without feeling the ground is
breathing without tasting oxygen
is being a robot

crash into sleep like a wave that overtakes you
like admitting you have no strength
or nothing left to give but a headprint into a pillow

autumn had been only imagined
lurking in small cracks between days,
paving heaved from fat roots underneath;
its arrival seemed improbable
in summer's heat

vernal green leaves grew only deeper
in generous sun,
promising some future harvest of fruit
far off distant, but sweet,
certainly, when it would come

cool, now, faded mornings break;
the pursuing season
sheds desires wizened,
of pages yellow-brown and finger-worn,
already memorized
as if being is cast aside in a child’s game
of loves me or loves me not,
youth’s clothing otherwise unneeded

they were, maybe, sins of greed
befallen all new living things
seeking moments owed but soon forgotten;
the scent of pink spring blossoms,
or how the peaches blushed in bunches
before we ate lustily from supple branches

how soon this winter comes
a tree’s hard woody bark will bare to needs,
extend dark arms, spindly, old
to splay against a field of gray
declaring stark existence to a callous sky
that stings with wind and cold

There once was a far away Miss,
Who wished she could give her man bliss.
She knew what to do,
And immediately blew
Him a sweet little SMS kiss.

<3

Mam, from the September following Child’s 5th birthday I no longer consider you fit to raise him.
For six hours a day, five-days-a-week-term-time-only Teacher can help.
Unfortunately Teacher takes time off. She needs a break from your little monster-
so during the holiday she gives Child back. Try not to undo the good work that’s been done.
(…Won’t you?…)
If you want to bother Teacher with (daft) questions go ahead.
She’ll rearrange her face into a listening position- And respond with jargon designed to make you feel thick.
Concerns?
Child often exaggerates.
O, I see. 2 adults, 30 children and a bundle of paperwork?
She’s qualified. You’re not.
(…are you? Thought not. And you don’t live in Big House or sound T’s and H’s… So where were we?…)
Nightmares? Bruises? Cuts, scrapes, a black-eye? Low self esteem?
(…so you’re a psychologist now?…)
Child cries? Is unhappy in class?
His fault.
Or yours! Don’t worry. Teacher keeps her eyes open for signs of trouble at home.
Child skips school? Down to you.
(…There will be various consequences, of course. And implications……c-o-n…s-e-qu-e…nce-s…,….i-m-p…l-i-c…a-t…i-on-s… It’s been made clear already: You’re not fit to raise him…)
Pressured? Bored? Judged and ignored? Humiliated? Belittled? Frustrated?
It will lead to what, exactly?
O, when he leaves School! For just a moment there
I was worried.
No, no. Not a problem. Not a problem at all.
Maybe he’ll run with a bad crowd, break a few laws, end up in the gutter?
Yes. Maybe.
But it’s out of my hands.

What’ll happen when you die? Will I lose you again? That would mean finding you. Undoing years, unpicking frayed edges fixed with the wrong coloured yarn. I see you at funerals. At Mum’s you were angry. So was I - but I concealed it. Played numb. At Dad’s you were shaking. I thought your nerves were finally shot. Or that the little boy, naked standing in snow, washing his clothes after a petit-mal fit, was still shivering and waiting for Mum. Then I noticed you weren’t drinking. Said you’d been stitched (again) by police- who’ve always had it in for you. Like they pass this hatred down through rank and generation, onto every town you’ve ever lived in? So that explained the orange-juice-and-lemonade made tidal in your hand. I want to rewind you. You were trouble, of course - but you were nice-trouble and I loved you. I looked up to you. I didn’t see the Big-Brave-Wall you were building. Or the things that made us not-normal. When I was born you were thirteen and already broken. When I was old enough to understand Mum had gained an upper hand, and you always sided with Dad. Even though you showed signs of knowing he was the ******* that ****** us up? I didn’t get it as bad. She learned. Mistakes made on you weren’t made on me. For a start she never left me with him. I was less ******. Or maybe not. Maybe just differently-****** and quicker to heal. My first crush? The copper who called for you, countless times - while I curled m'self round m' cornflakes, burning - too scared to move or turn, rotisserie style, in front of the blue-gas flame. And somewhere in me, not so deep, that teenage ju, that one less-mended who danced-all-weekend-and-slept-where-she-landed, still boasts: Had him y’know. Another notch on a well-and-truly nibbled ‘post. I cried at Dad’s funeral, but I wasn’t crying for him. Why would I?

We go out running.
Loudly our silence shrieking
back and forth with the wind
forcing itself
knives
into our lungs
You force me farther still over the bridge now
And then we're back there by the water
this is where we were back then
two years before this
two years before all the nightmares
whom have since presses their bodies against me between us
handsome with ****** hands
holding me hostage in their embraces
in my embrace  of myself
It was warm then, with you.
but the moon was just as now.
and you kissed me just as now
and embrace me youre still warm
August just as November.
Stormy just like the weather
Fiercely you make your love to me
So that i remember
Down into the night
you hold my hand and locked in prayer
we breathe...
We stay and look out onto the water
into the past and into the future
You force me farther  still - testing my persistence.
And then after so much waiting
We run back home
finally together

a finger in my mouth:
rough sound from above,
from somewhere in the dark.

my skin wrinkles,
sags around these heavy joints.
i am so much noise.

evening dawns
my hands wander,
unsure of their purpose.

i love you for your contradictions—

the tuned dissonance that hums

past midnight lips,

brushing my ear when you sleepily

draw me in closer.

i lie in the curve of your heartbeat,

thinking about concrete abstracts,

but mostly about how you warmed

my foot with your hand,

how you seem to smile the most

by the way we walk in time,

and how i always miss you

when i have you.



(i like how we always have to

relearn how to click together,

and how it takes about

thirty seconds, the awkward space between

fingers interlocking.)



you leave me with tear-slicked elbows,

and i hurry our goodbyes.