I am a holder of dolls,
said Monica,
I keep them in my arms
in light and dark,
I sleep with one
in my bed at night,
her fuzzy hair
tickles my face,
my dreams are of
my mother's cries,
her anguish over
the men who come.

I am the bearer
of her smacks,
her voice vibrates
in my ears,
her hand marks
colour my skin.

My window looks out
on fish shop below,
the baker's shop
on the left,
on narrow
Meadow Row,
the bomb sites
on either side.

My mother's men
come and go,
they make her
laugh or cry,
they sleep beside her
in her double bed,
I hear their voices
in the dark,
the sounds of giggles
or weeping,
the slapping of hands
on flesh,
the darkness brings me
bogeymen and shadows.

One of the men,
crept to my bed,
removed my doll,
touched my leg,
lifted my nightdress,
our little secret
he whispered to me,
the darkness swallowed him
up, the dirtiness left
in his wake.

I am the sleeper
of light sleep,
I listen for the sound
of creeping feet,
for the door **** to move ,
for the door to open,
for the hands to touch,
for the secrets kept.

From my window I see
the children at play
on the grass below,
with toy guns,
bows and arrows,
dolls and prams,
they look for me
to join in,
to enter their games,
the boys seek me
as their cowgirl moll,
they ride their invisible
horses across the plains,
shooting out
their cowboy dreams.

I watch the sky darken,
the moon a silver coin,
the clouds
puffs of smoke,
my mother
calls me to meals,
the table and chairs,
old and stained,
her man friend
drinks and smokes,
makes silly remarks,
***** jokes,
me he pinches
(under the table)
or secretly pokes.

I am the holder of dolls,
they are my true companions,
they never complain,
they share my dreams,
they share my pains.

From my window
I see Benedict play,
he alone knows
of my plight,
he my knight
in cowboy shirt
and jeans,
my teller of tales,
my listener of woes,
he buys me
sweets or chips
after our games,
walks me home
with his 6 shooter gun
resting in the holster
by the side of his leg,
his cowboy hat
slanted to one side.

He keeps my secrets,
holds my hand
over busy roads,
eyes the men
my mother brings home,
guns them down
in our shared dreams.

I kiss his cheek
as a kind of thanks,
he blows me a kiss
from his open palm
as he rides
the bomb site plains,
he knows my fears
of the men
and my mother's smacks
and the pains,
he stares at my mother
with his hazel eyes,
his steady stare,
he alone likes me,
he alone is there.