Your father has paid
Good money for the
Artist. Sit very still,

Deepta, the man needs
You not to fidget, he
Says, placing his hairy

Hands on your shoulder.
Why must women move
So? Is stillness alien to

Your nature? You thought
He was going to laugh or
Smile but he does not; his

Lips disappear into his huge
Moustache and beard. The
Artist moves you to the left

Slightly, his small hands
Moulding you to the position
He requires, his eyes studying

You, dark brown, you notice,
The thin moustache thinly
Grown. Your father stands

Where he can see you. He  
Folds his arms and stands
Stiffly. The artist seems

Nervous, he fiddles with
His charcoal, his fingers as
A dancer warming up before

The dance, his eyes moving
Over you as if his mind has
Already taken you in, has

Swallowed you in a huge
Gulp. Father nods, then rather
Slowly leaves the room, his

Hairy hands behind his back,
His fingers crossed. You
Breathe easy; the artist blows

Out air, his anxiety away, he
Smiles at you. Men often smile
At you, it is their way of

Capturing your image for
Their sleepless nights, for
Their empty lives, replacing

Your beauty for the dullness
And ugliness of their wives.

There is light
Ingrid sees
through curtains

of her room
as she lays
in her bed

she hears rows
raised voices
her father

bellowing
her brother
answering

her mother
crying out
Ingrid bites

at her lip
what's up now?
She wonders

sitting up
anxiously
her brother

shouting back
her father
barking words

she gets up
out of bed
listens out

at the door
of her room
don't go Tom

please don't go
her mother
pleads loudly

to her son
a door slams
then silence

whimpering
is then heard
her mother

in the hall
her father
swearing loud

which echo
in Ingrid's
ears and mind

she creeps back
to her bed
snuggles down

like a mole
under brown
thick blankets

hopes to God
her father
won't come in

taking it out
on young she
his daughter

but she knows
usually
that he does

she just waits
laying there
in her bed

for the harsh
bitter hurtful
bee-like buzz.

Time's the great healer,
I've heard say,
but not just now though,
not here within this heart

and mind it's not,
least just not
here and now,
and you know,

my son,
and though
I sense you near
in the way

the dead can be,
you're not here
as you used to be
and that's what gets me,

that it will not be
like that again,
hence the grief,
the pain.

But stoically,
as you,
my stoic son,
were right
until the end;

seeing
the larger picture,
view the whole horizon
not just the tiny details

of the here and now;
but I miss you,
right here, right now,
without doubt and how.

I knocked the black
door knocker
on Janice's nan's door
and her nan answered

and said
o hello Benedict
Janice can't come out
she let the canary out

and we had
a hell of  a job
getting it back
in the cage again

so I'm keeping her in
I was going
to tan her backside
but I thought

keeping her in
was more
of a punishment
on a day like this

o right
I said
looking at Nan's eyes
and her greying hair

and unsmiling face
but you can come in
and see her
for a few minutes

shame that you
have to be
without her though
so she walked

back up the passage
and into the sitting room
where Janice
was sitting on a settee

looking disgruntled
it's Benedict
come to see you
he is only staying

for a few minutes
so don't think
you can go out
because you can't

Janice nodded
and looked tearful
and her nan walked off
into the kitchen

I didn't mean
to let the bird out
I just opened
the cage door

to get it to stand
on my finger
but it flew out
and it to ages

to catch it again
and Nan was so angry
that she was
on the border

of giving a smacking
but then she thought
keeping me in
was more

of a punishment
so here I am
on a lovely warm day
sorry about that

I said
where are you going?
she asked
I was going to Jail Park

on the swings and slide
I said  
I see
she said

looking at me sadly
what have you got
in the bag?
I opened the bag

it's that Robin Hood book
I bought it
in that junk shop
on the New Kent Road

she held it
and opened it up
and looked
at the words

and  pictures
maybe next time
I can be
your Maid Marian

to your Robin Hood
she said
yes
I said

looking
at the canary
in its cage
that'd be good.

The nights
seem longer now,
darker, depressing,
the moon
a laughing clown,
getting me down.

The days seem
less brighter now,
the hours passing
like ghostly scares,
minute upon minute
clocking up a speed,
the joy of being
in need of watering
or a newer feed.

Certain days
of the week
come and haunt
and replay
the dark hours
and ugly pain,
the losing of you,
my son,
all over again.

I see your face
as it was
those last days,
it come to me
in dreams or
in the still hours
between this or that,
comes vivid
yours eyes,
my stoic son,
that liquid blue,
darker seeming,
a different seeing,
another you.

Do you like
my new shoes?
Helen says
Dad got them

for me
I look
at the new shoes
brown like new

polished conkers
yes they look good
Mum says I can
wear them to church

today and I've put on
my Sunday dress
as it is Sunday
and what do you think

of the white socks
and the little pink
ribbons at the top?
and you'll never guess  

I've got new handkerchiefs
and I've got one
with me now
and she gets it out

of her dress pocket
and shows me
and I gaze at it
waiting to get

a word in edgeways
but she says
and after that
Saturday morning

matinee yesterday
and that boy
attacking you
with that knife

Mum says she's
not sure I should go
any more
you know what

Mum's like
but maybe you
could talk her around
because I like

being there
with you
and o by the way
my doll Battered

Betty's other eye
is stuck now
and she can only
see through half

an open eye
it's my little
brother's fault
he banged her

with his toy hammer
o poor Betty
and to think
she could see

out of both eyes
when Mum bought
her for me
from that jumble sale

a few years ago
I nod having given up
trying to get  
a word in

and see how neat
her hair is plaited
into two neat plaits
with pink ribbons

and her think lens glasses
clean so that I can
see her eyes
large as oysters

and guess what?
she says
I have two
shiny pennies

for the collection
at church
Dad gave them to me
and said new pennies

for new prayers
have you got
pennies too?
yes I've got 3d

my Mum gave me
I say feeling it good
to get my words
out there on the stage

of the day
and she smiles
and that smile
blows me

a seven
year old kid
in my best suit
far away.

The monk raises
the host
during Mass,
high between fingers

and thumbs,
head and eyes
look up,
the Body of Christ,

he tones.
I watch
the old monk eat;
his jaw moving

in a semi circle
as he ate,
his eyes down
on his plate,

an old French
soup spoon
half way
from bowl to lips.

I remember her hands
sorting through
my garments
for the fellow,

her eyes intent,
her fingers nimble
as an artisan's.
A French peasant monk

peels potatoes
in the kitchen
with the seriousness
of Van Gogh

in a darker mood,
thinking of deeper things
than wine or food.