Anne put her crutches
by the table
on the lawn
and sat next to me

how's it going Kid?
ok
I said
what's for breakfast?

porridge or cereal
or toast
I said
no egg and bacon

and sausages?
she said
no
I said

**** me
she said
who eats toast
or porridge

or  cereals?
pass me a glass
and pour me
some of that

orange muck
I poured her
a glass of orange juice
and put it

by her hand
she sipped it
I've tasted better
she said

I want you
to push me
down to the beach
later Kid

can't stick
being stuck
with these other kids
they drive me

up the wall
with their
goody-two-shoes
nonsense with the nuns

especially Sister Paul
the stuck up *****
I looked back
towards the nursing home

other kids
were sitting about
other tables
and here and there

a nun was attending
to them
got any more wine gums
from your mother?

she asked me
no they've gone
Sister Bridget took them
to share

amongst the others
****** communist
she said
I looked at her

sitting in the chair
her one leg visible
the stump
of the other leg

hidden beneath
her blue dress
the dress had little
anchors and boats

on it
had your look Kid?
she said
you're always trying

to look at my stump
aren't you?
I can't help it
my eyes are drawn

to the missing leg
I said
she lifted her dress
and showed

the stump of leg
have a good look Kid
I looked at the stump
then looked away

towards the windows
of the nursing home
when do you want
to go to the beach?

I asked
as soon as I’ve had breakfast
she said
she pulled down

her dress to cover her stump
and sipped the juice
the red ribbon
in her dark

straight hair
had come loose.

Can't find
your Jimi Hendrix
tee-shirt;

I liked it
when you wore it
last year;

the whole 60s image
fitted you well,
your laid back stance,

the beard, moustache,
the humour sharp,
but not unkind.

We looked
for the Hendrix
tee-shirt everywhere,

but couldn't find.
You were my Stoic
philosopher;

I thought you
immortal
to a degree,

the one
who would outlast
us all,

be the one
to arrange us
from this

mortal coil,
but you went first,
death stole you twice,

the second time
for good,
the final kiss

and goodbye,
my son,
watching you die.

Ingrid's words
were muffled
when she spoke to me
by Dunn's hat shop

where we said
we'd meet
the day before
her thick lip

(where he father
had backhanded her)
moved slowly
does you dad

wear hats?
she asked
looking in
the shop window

no
I said
never seen him
ever wear a hat

not even to cover
his balding head
she looked
at the passing traffic

what happened to you?
I asked
pointing to her lip
my dad didn't like

the way I brushed
my hair
he said it was
too tartish

whatever that means
she said
tapping her
recently brushed hair

I tried to get out
of his way
but he caught me
with a backhand

I’m going
to the cinema
this afternoon
I said

there's a cowboy film on
and I want to see
how the good guy
draws out his gun

he does it
by crossing over
his hands
could I come?

she asked
Mum might give me
9d for a ticket
as long as Dad

doesn't know
she added
sure
I said

come to my flat
after lunch
we walked down
the subway

to get
to St George's Road
to walk along
to Bedlam Park

to try out
the swings there
and buy an ice cream
outside the swimming pool

(money I'd been given
by my old man
for polishing
his brown brogues)

I studied her
as we walked along
she talking
of her old man's temper

and how he punched
her mother
for letting
his dinner get cold

I noticed her
faded grey dress
the flowers red
against watery green stems

grey-white
ankle socks
black scuffed shoes
her thin hands

gesturing as she talked
and the slight smell
of dampness
as I neared her

the bruise
under her left eye
fading
like the morning sun

where her old man
had thumped her
for something
she hadn't done.

Mrs Cleves
her husband
long ago

elbowed out
allowed me in
the young guy

the green
at the gills guy
come around

she said
bring a bottle
I'll put on

the Mahler
1st or 2nd
and we can drink

and talk and whatsoever
so when evening came
and work was done

and dinner eaten
I took off
to Mrs Cleves's place

and she welcomed me in
with her usual
soft spoken voice

and Scottish tones
and she poured
the drinks

and put on
the Mahler
on the Hi-Fi

and she talked
about her day
and I talked

about mine
and so Benny
she said

how's it going?
how's the writing?
heard any music

you think
I should hear?
I sipped my drink

(usually Scotch)
and said
well the writings

coming along slow
but I heard
this Delius guy's music

and it kind of
turned me on  
I said

Delius?
she said
think I've heard of him

she drained
her glass
and poured

another gin
the Mahler played
in the background

she'd put on
her a tight fitting dress
short above

her knees
she sat
crossed legged

then uncrossed them
then crossed them again
I’ve heard tell

that one
of the young girls
has her eyes

on you
she said
news to me

I said
the student girl
long hair

middle class
Mrs Cleves said
nice ***

I understand
I sipped the drink
the Mahler movement

was slow
emotional
O her

yes she's been
talking to me
I said

given me a book
by Pound
Pound?

Mrs Cleves said
yes
some American poet

I said
why
did she give you

the book?
she asked
don't know

guess she thought
I might like it
no female

gives a man
a book of poems
unless she's

after something
Mrs Cleves said
like the Robert Burns

book you gave me
you mean?
I said smiling

that's different
she said
I drained my glass

and she poured another
leaning over me
her eyes gazing

into mine  
how about bed Benny?
she said

the Mahler moved on
to a louder movement
lively

crashing
I drank in
her perfume

her breath breathed
on me
and so we went

to her room
and bed
and undressed

and the Mahler
became far away
like under water

sounding
the curtains drawn
against the night

the moon shining
through the pink
flowered cloth

I didn't tell her
about
the student girl's

fine *** or ***
in case
of her wrath.

I see you framed within the pane
of a stained glass window,
the warmth of dawn
crashing through its technicolor glaze
with the fervor of an untamed wave
of burning rays that peer into my soul
with kaleidoscope eyes

Sometimes, I want to die.

Not because I am unhappy

or lonely

or tired or scared

Just to see if I’d get the chance to do it all over.

If we would get the chance to rethink every thought

to take back a kiss or a silence or a ****** essay we wrote the night before it was due

a do-over

But if we knew that we would

what would we live for?

August 4th, 1992
That night
My heart began beating
To the rhythm of
Two words
Samantha Shea
My baby girl
She was 9 pound 6 ounces
Of pure love and joy

Her mother’s eyes
My ears
But her smile
Was all her own
She seemed almost wise
Just staring blankly back
At me
Like she knew me
Better than I knew myself
I have never loved anyone
So much

I tried to give her all I could
Make her feel like a real princess
Make her feel safe
And loved
She grew up with things
Her mother and I
Only dreamed of as children
But she was never selfish
Never unkind

I never knew
How much she hated herself
Until I noticed that her arms
Made her look like war veteran
And her eyes
Like those of a ghost
A lost soul wandering around
Lost and Suffering

Could it be that hard
To be a teenage girl
Could it be that hard
To have everything
Handed to you
Everyone love you

That night I saw her as
Nothing but selfish and unkind
I mean how could she do this to us
To herself
I looked her in the eyes and asked
Why
With a single tear running down her face
Resembling a winter’s first snowflake
Or a desert’s first raindrop
She let out the words
“I wasn’t meant for this world”
No you were meant for me
You are my world

I wanted to wipe her tears
And heal her scars
Her years of fear and self-loathing
Was no match for my love
My compassion
My understanding

I spent the next two weeks
Helpless, lost, and confused
By the time we had found her
The bath water was as cold as my heart
The floor stained with drops of
Complete sadness
No note
I cried until I was
Red in my face and
Blue in my heart

A parent should never
Have to bury their child
So we had her cremated
We figured that
She spent 16 years
Stuck in her own box
She shouldn’t have to be
Buried in one

I’ve never loved anyone
So much

when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.
always.

his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.

on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.

as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.

he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.

he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.

his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.

he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.

m.f.