Shlomit sat
on the corrugated roof
of the pram sheds
gently kicking
the heels
of her battered
black shoes
against the brick wall
and she told you
her mother wore
more makeup
than usual to cover
the bruises
her father gave
but don’t tell anyone
she said
I’m not supposed
to say anything
mother said
you know
in case he hears
she mouthed off
to neighbours
you said you’d
tell no one
looking at her
beside you
her hair pinned back
with grips
her thick lens
spectacles
blowing up her eyes
her black skirt
and stained blouse
with the plastic
necklace you got her
from the fairground
around her thin neck
you’d seen her old man
crossing the Square
some nights
three sails
to the wind
singing sometimes
cursing others
and one day
you saw her mother
black of eyes
and spilt of lips
carrying shopping back
from the shops
you don’t wear make up
you said
guess he leaves you alone
her eyes looked away
her drowned kitten
perfume took
your nose
and as she moved
you saw the bluey
green skin
on her upper arm
but you knew he did
the screwball
talked with his fists
if his words failed
but Shlomit said nothing
of that she talked
of her wedding day
when she grew up
and how many kids
she’d have
and she having
a white dress
and a big house
although you knew
she thought it
even if
it wasn’t said
that her future husband
maybe like
her old man
or maybe just
a deep down dread.