Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day. Feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realized I could get rid of the sofa.

I thought it was ugly. She thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.

Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.

My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have. She smacked me when I was little) … but I stopped.

I never wanted to. I had known all along, somehow forgotten.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.

Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs. Feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her .

It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill. No cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.

My little boy had grown. He helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk. She wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.


Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realized it was time to move on.

I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.

Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.

Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.

If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.

Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.

I want you to see her-
but she winds, unwinds
on an old question-hook
she is pinned by it.
spins around and around.
paper-windmill - razor wire,
every rotation more freedom.
remove her for you?
no. she’d bleed-out in the knowing,
and a tortured dancer is better
than no dancer at all.

~

it’s been a good evening. now she’s wearing her robe and you’re sat with a drink watching telly. you lean forward to refill yours but spill it. she looks nervous for a moment and you think that’s sweet.

she thinks you drink too much- now she’s wary. she felt you eye each step she took when you were out. you lean in and she remembers winning every day at school, a silly playground game they called Don’t Flinch!

your mates fancy her- you saw them flirt. now she’s blush-pink and pretty and on your couch. she told you she was wet before you could order another round, so you didn’t bother. it’s really early, but you’re home.

she avoided talking. thought she’d stopped you getting gone. but you got Scotch in a drawer she didn’t find. half a bottle in, your eyes tell how gone you are. she’s sussing if you’ll get hard or just pass out.

you run a hand down the centre of her robe. reveal sheer knickers you’ve not seen her in before. you drag your fingers slowly from those knickers to her mouth- ask her where she got them- she doesn’t know.

(she looks scared and you think that's hot)

~

Can I come to you as I am,
in secret-
brimming with the need to be held?
Can I lay hot whispers on your skin
then taste how they make you feel?
Can I show you how to touch me,
how hard to press?
If I cry
can I hide salty tears
in the soft curve of your neck?
Can I bite, ever so gently,
before I scream?
Can I be your lover,
without you loving me?
Can I, please?

I paint nails in a sin shade. nourish skin touched, touched, touched - cloud routine in amber and curve. leave smooth the fold where hid distrust. and I won’t stop, stop, stop - because the fold-promise made, the routine-perfume-sin, the nails, curves, skin - O Love - are not yours, yours, yours - they are mine.

I watch you spark up. A small frown grows deep, then disappears when you inhale. Whole moments pass, and you hold that new smoke in your lungs. You are shuttered, you are gone. I like that you return to me first. Even before your eyes are fully open you find me; warm and backlit through lids, a ghost through dark lashes.  

You reach for me, run a finger under my vest strap. I like that you switch the cigarette to your left hand and don’t seem to notice. The ember-glow dances and sways. Smoke spills up in a silver ribbon when you exhale.

Knee length skirt, cotton cami,
lace shrug, and heels.
All black.
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Very pretty.
My children edge past her, past the Other Women,
on their way to the park.
Son takes a second look, then hurries on. Vans squeak
through sodden grass.
Baggy jeans soak up puddles of mud.
Typical twelve-year-old boy.

They return,
plastered in cut-grass, flushed-pink and grinning.
Daughter cradles the ball, and
crows about winning, while
The Pretty One, the Other Women,
alternate tuts with
oh-what-it-is-to-be-youngs
…
but The Pretty One,
she's only
twelve.

Slip, slip, slip to the brink,
they imagine you're dancing.
Freeze there, they see proof of control.

Choke out a few words?
Then you're lying.
Stay silent? Well, then you're a fraud.

Slip, slip, slip to the brink,
and I'll join you.
Freeze there, and I'll keep you safe.

Choke out a few words?
Then I'll listen.
Stay silent? Then baby, I'll wait.

Cold.
I was waiting
but I’ve changed my mind.
The whole world fell away, left just me/us
and it felt OK.
All the stuff I thought mattered;
age-gap, gossip, housing, education-
when it was just me/us- it didn’t.
(she’s awake)
For a moment we were everything.
It was beautiful.
I love me/us- even with
complications pushing
into my mind,
cramming themselves
around me/us euphoria-
I’m not making an Angel today.
Going home.
(what’s she doing?)
Jelly legs aren’t working,
feel hot and slippery.
She’s holding me
down.
(Sshh- you’re fine, just a bit woozy)
I don’t believe in Angels.
Crap.
(it’s the anaesthetic, makes them cry)

Sweet nothings bore me.

Secrets shared in the first ten minutes
are worth less than the effort it takes me
to hear them.

So say something new, in words
that burn my skin when they touch.
Must try harder.

little girl, drawing.
chalk on the wall,
red brick on the path-
she’s more than quiet.
not all of it bad.

Yes, of course.

Those were the words I found in me.

In a space filled with women, it was a chorus of memory -
and I didn’t spill so much as drip those words to floor.

Yes, of course.

I inhaled alone, then exhaled the room.

In a pause filled with men, it was a shy breath of honesty -
a fortunate few breathed in and out by themselves.

Yes, of course.
Yes, of course.

Has anyone here experienced **** or ****** assault?

Yes, of course.

Lamps are placed apart. Space enough
for dark to seed between them -

an hourglass. Black sand filled to curves
of light spilled on grey tarmac.

gloves-off, she
leans on her back foot
moves fast and hides tired eyes
behind a battle-blue arm  

from a punch-bloodied mouth
she spills and spits words out on canvas
makes way for cool air- tries to
pacify lungs before they explode, calm
a heart that longs to rebel

she needs to feel loved, but can
be understood only by tracing braille-like-trauma
on her Vaseline skin-
and if she’s not out for the count
she doesn't keep still

I got the gist of men when I was little.

A shopkeeper spoke to Mum.

I used my pleases and thank-yous,
he filled my hands with free sweets.

I looked at the floor.

Mum insisted I smile, so I did -
I met his eye through my fringe.

She’ll be trouble.

He spoke to Mum, and looked at me.

Every sound- too loud.
So tired,
wired.
Where is he?
My own footfalls mock me,
rebound off walls-
shock me
into standing stock still.
Silence.
Breathe again.
Catch a whiff of cigarette smoke.
Hear him,
coat swishing-
so close.
Don’t turn
and don’t listen
but words somehow seep in.
Threats hit their
mark.
Heart beats too fast now.
Dizzy and sick.
Why me? For ****’s sake-
and why him?
Me walking,
him whispering really ****** me off.
I need to change this routine-
before he does.

TW - domestic abuse  


If I had discovered you, Silhouette, told the world to you, cast a spell
to flatten the curve of you - could you have stayed?

If I had stopped hateful hands moving from heavy ******* over new
roundness to naive-wet - could I have run with you?

If I had pushed through their countdown, their grip and anesthesia -
clammed up, stood up - would they have let us get away?


I should have kept you - Silhouette - cocooned and safe.


He discovered you in a slow transformation I hadn’t felt - turned me
around to face him, like a naughty child.

I wondered the game we played. He slid hands up my vest, cupped my *******, drew fingers down the symmetry of my belly.

He laughed because I was wet, but I opened to him, I always did. I learned
about you, Silhouette, when he whispered you can’t keep it.

Clamber from bed sheets,
tangled. Catch her
tight. Hold her
safe. Curl up with her
in the soft grey light
of almost-day.

America, please
let your paper-heart bleed
for the poor.

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.

Fettered by syrupy curves
of well-handled prose. Exposed,
prone. Bound to bleed
maraschino in free-verse.

refill your cup from mine,
move my food to your plate -
I can’t eat alone.

don’t go.

(take)

However delicate, translucent - they'll keep.
Precious lines neatly pressed, jagged inspiration rolled.
Conversation folded, folded, tucked away.
Ideas will slip to place or fall. Either way - still there.
Still there. Still there. Your words: They’ll sleep until tomorrow.

We angled ourselves to face Lyra-
I turned repeatedly to him.
Hid in a blanket-cocoon we
beat a rhythm of fingertip-dreams.

We angled ourselves to face Lyra-
I turned repeatedly to him.
He rained prayers and promises;
a sky-full of stars fell down unseen.

We angled ourselves to face Lyra-
I turned one last time to him.
Pinned dead-butterfly colours
to his mouth, his tongue, his skin.

Love superposed,
spins on a question: Yes or no?
Shut away-

away
away
away

Pandora, child you had it easy.

Lift the lid?

No.

Better to live with love in theory
than to live with no love at all.

Birds cry and sing in the still-dark,
commit to living one more winter’s day.
In sleeping rooms their heartache finds me
building nests for injured things.
  
I will lock the door when I leave-
and carry their heartache with my own.
I will pilfer light from a low-rolling Sun and
siphon-off peace from the sea.

(I will love, I will love, I will love)

the slow salt of her tongue licks deep the sandstone
that broke and bound her to shore

Outside, dark exists in vast swathes. Inside, lamps tell various truths from different angles: To my left is a life measured in chapters, to my right one measured in pills. I look to the window for answers - Instead all I see is an expanse of inky-black glass and rain shattered ghosts.

Want

plays in the shallows
at my edge

I rewound her
she is girl again, unknowing -

she hungers, and I feed her crumbs
she swims, and I pull her back

I can’t have her grow strong -

not now

is it possible we touched?

that you spilled into me
thoughts like cigarette smoke?

silver threaded, exhaled in a rush

is it possible we spoke?

turned to whispers
the dark corners of our minds?

twined my words with your songs

is it possible we loved?

will again, you and I- immortal?

I’ll walk clifftop.

Watch the sunrise fractured by a hundred different puddles, made whole again by the sea.

I’ll bleed peace and spill calm over ground that should’ve been cared for by now, and I’ll draw maps of the old season in battleship blue and a half-healed ****** crimson.

I’ll love them: Today they are mine.
Tonight I’ll give them away, and I’ll love them more.

I’ll walk clifftop.

I’ll pause. Watch the sunset rain copper-coins into a rolling-smoke sea, and I’ll miss him.

Cleave mind from neck.
Cut just above each joint - get rid
of feet and hands.
Slice clean,
hold tight and tear.

Swipe from skin -
prise apart and portion limbs.

Please share.

I’ll slip my shoes off,
love you quietly.

Take baby steps, and
place cold soles

With care enough to
avoid the sharps.

I give him my heart, I say take it -
press the paper to his palm.

I fold his fingers shut around it -
pray this year he spends it well.

Lips and fingers, shuttered glance -
click, quick lick extinguished.

(I’m sure it’s wrong to view this as impending beauty)

He turns - avoids tide-salt breeze made
fast by alleyway and dark.

Again - click, quick lick. Hand’s a shield,
spark’s hidden, can still feel it.

(Behind closed-door words fly; heard and unheard)

We're here, lost and found inside his ritual.

a place where:

peaks and troughs of human emotions manifest

a girl drops curiosity over a fort-ledge

a boy runs with kited-wonder, away from pinned blanket dreams

a man haunts a fading, falling edge of field

a woman breathes, just breathes

Will you explore me now?
Of course you discovered, laid claim,
surveyed and drew me.
But I am altered.
Our careful step-by-step paths
are trod smooth.
And I know them now, can lead you.

Will you take from me now?
Of course there are scars. Seams torn apart.
Scratched earth once shone to your touch.
Cradled and rocked, its
fine glowing dust hid in dark
secret spots.
And I know them now, can show you.

Will you feast with me now?
Of course I had little to give, but
traces of then took root, flourish here still.
Nourished by years
and by others, bear fruits worth picking apart
before tasting.
And I know them now, can feed you.

Will you return to me now?

I awoke at silly-o’clock. Made tea, and re(a)d.
Probably shouldn’t ree(a)d when I’m still sleep-blurry...

I re(a)d fork as frock. Thought- what the hell, to her mouth?
Didn’t seem that kind of novel.

I re(a)d Evil as Elvis. Thought- **** me, this guy’s really
got it in for dead rock n roll stars.

Spilled my tea laughing and ow’d.

It is painful being me.

A little blood, and then nothing.
Waited. But there were no cramps, no sweats.
No shrimp-like cell cluster.

She recalled the dates of this downfall: Of a
**** no law’d recognise.
Bus drivers’ strike.
Consultation with a grumpy-old-doctor-man.

"... you’re probably too late. Try an
Aspirin between your knees next time…”

This is how she told her love to me. Measured
against in-spite-of, not by because.

I run to you
your rhythm, your beat

for a moment they're mine
and we breathe together,
breathe

I run to you
your hunger, your need

for a moment they're mine
and we cleave together,
cleave

I run to you
your sweet-wet, your greed

for a moment they're mine
and we feed together,
feed

You are
delicious
And I am
greedy.
You are
generous
And I am
needy.
You are
experienced
And I am
learning.
You are
flammable
And I am
burning.

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll trace every wound, grease
all her vulnerabilities
and the taste of forged metal
will flavour your dreams

she’ll dance with you watching,
a storm over canvas
and she’ll swing for those *******
like a silk-wrapped machine  

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll watch as each cut’s inflicted
then wait your turn to touch
to your hand she’ll ever-be Vaseline slick
or sticky with blood

she’ll hide vibrant colours behind
gunmetal hues but beneath careful fingers
her scars will tell truths- and
they’ll burn fire tattoos into your heart

wanna be her cutman?
you sure?

(you’ll wish dead every guy
has her over ropes or on canvas, but  
she’ll be eyeing those guys while
you’re fixing her up)