On the way back
from the cinema
with your old man

one Friday night
he stopped
at the fish and chip shop

and ordered chips
in salt and vinegar
in a large bag

and walked home
down Meadow Row
he talking of the films

you'd seen
how he once met
the actress

in some film festival
up West
you were thinking

of the cowboy
in the film
and how well

he drew his gun
especially using
his right hand

to get the gun
from his left hand holster
a kind of cross over style

and you thought
I must try that
when I get home

get it down
to perfection
and he said he'd seen

the actor( not
the cowboy guy
some other)

in the theatre once
in some play
you thought

how you'd show Ingrid
once you had
the technique of

cross over drawing
of the gun
to a fine art

she'd sit on the grass
by Banks House
and watch

with her mouth open
as you did
your show piece

and you'd show her
how fast you could draw
your 6 shooter or

maybe you'd wear
both guns
one on each side

the old man was still
yakking on
about this actress

but you were imagining
Ingrid sitting there
on the grass

or on the bicycle sheds
listening to you talk
of the film

and how good
the cowboy was
and you saw her

in your mind's eye
( as you and your old man
crossed over Rockingham Street

and up the *****
to the Square)
sitting there

with her eyes wide open
her hands
like sleeping doves

lying in her lap
and on the leg
(as usual)

a crimson mark
from her father's
hard slap.

She sat watching ducks
on the pond,
I lay beside her
watching clouds pass.

She still wore
her school uniform
as did I having got off
the school bus
and came right
there to the pond.

Yehudit was silent
-a miracle in itself-
birds sang
from trees nearby,
traffic noises
were audible
from the road
over the way.

Still got the huff?
I said,
looking at her
sideways on.

She turned
and glanced at me;
bright blue eyes stared.

You were with her
all through lunch hour
and not me,
she said, and what's
she got I haven't?

I live near you;
she lives near school
miles away,
I said.

And? So what?
Yehudit said.

I don't get to talk
with her except
at school,
I said.

You were more
than talking.

I watched
as she turned away,
her hair brown
and on her shoulders;
her bra strap edged
through the cotton blouse.

She sat in a provocative way
and you were
too close to her,
Yehudit said.

I studied the way
her figure narrowed;
her *** was neat.

I saw you from
where I was sitting.

I saw you,
I said,
gawking at us.

She turned
and stared at me.

Does that kiss
at Christmas
mean nothing to you?
Yehudit asked.

I recalled the kiss
and moonlight
and stars
and the choir sang
carols to people
in the houses.

Means a lot,
I said.

Didn't seem like it
lunchtime when you
were all over her
like she was a *****
on heat.

The school tie
was untied
and pulled away
from her neck.

Her ******* pushed
against cloth.

She hasn't your humour
or your figure,
I said.

She lay beside me
and turned
and stared.

Is that so?
She asked,
eyes wide and blue.

Yes, of course,
I said.

What else can a boy
say or do?

He is her first love,
the love which makes
her want to open her
arms to the early day,

hear bird song, wash
in the cold water the
maid brings, breaking
the ice, her hand scooping

up the coldness to her
face, and the o yes this
is it, feel, in her. Before
him there were only dull

mornings, icy ablutions,
boring birds singing, and
her father lecturing at
the morning table about

the horses or the birds
for the shoot or how well
his dogs hunt. This first love,
this exciting explosion,

this wanting to run through
the fields undressed and
sing loudly, this new born,
fresh as a lamb kind of love,

this tingling through the veins
and nerves feeling, this is
what the poet’s name love,
their words ticking off the

virtues, their voices calling
across shires, hills and seas.
She wants him to come,
wants his arms about her,

his lips on hers, she thinks of
him each moment of her day,
senses him in each touch her
body feels, in each smell of air.

She wants him there. Before him
there was just the routine of daily
visits to the poor of the parish
with he mother’s gossip, picking

of flowers, the dull witted wit of
her tiresome brothers, before this
first love she almost drowned in
the daily drudge, but now she feels

each second’s tick, each moment’s
*****, the over feel of air and breath
and him maybe being there to watch
her dress (unseen of course) and

all the little things that first love brings.
The maid helps her dress, buttons
up at the back, brushes the hair, o
o she wishes it were the first love

there unbuttoning her dress and
making her neatly done hair in a mess.

There's a baby crying
from another room
a dog barking
from across the road

Helen opens her eyes
to her bedroom
her mind focuses
as much
it can
in morning's light

her younger sister
sleeps next to
her mouth open
eyes closed
hands resting on top
of the blanket

what day is it?
Helen asks herself
she calculates
Saturday yes Saturday

she smiles
no need to get up
just yet
she turns away
from her sister
and looks
at the wall
at her side
with green flowered
wall paper
torn in places
where her sister
has ripped it

she has to ask her mum
about the cinema
Benny said to go
but she wasn't sure
her mum would let her
or could afford
for her to go

I'll pay for you
Benny had said
the previous day
at school
I've got some
pocket money still

but she couldn't
just say yes
without her mum
knowing or agreeing

she sits up
and looks
at her sister sleeping
and gets up
and stands
on the cold floor
and goes to the window
and looks out

her mum is up
and in the kitchen
she can hear
saucepans being used
and her mum talking

she gets out of her bedroom
and along
to the kitchen/wash-room

what's got you out of bed
on a Saturday?
her mum asks
making porridge

Benny's going
to the cinema
and asked me to go
Helen says
pretending
lack of interest

does he now
and what
did you say?

Helen looks
at her mum's
broad beam
of backside
and tight
head of curls

said I'd ask you
Helen replies

did you now
well now you've asked

Helen waits
unsure of the answer

how much is it
to the cinema then?

Benny said
it's 6d
he did say he'd pay
but I said
I wasn't going to
accept his charity
(she hadn't
but it sounded good)

don't be too proud
of charity girl
you may need it
one day
her mum says

can I go?

her mum stirs
the saucepan of porridge

ok
but don't
make a habit of it
I'm not made
of money

Helen beams
and hugs her mum's
wide waist
and kisses her hip

get on with you
and get washed
and dressed
her mum says

and Helen
full of happiness
take off her nightgown
and washes
in the sink
of soapy water
her thoughts racing
around her head
like a cat chasing
a mouse
all over
a large
many roomed
house.

Just us,
those last moments,
(not that we
expected them to be).

Those final words,
mundane,
with Ok
and See you
tomorrow then
or some such like.

Then the departure;
no last embrace,
no hint of final going
into the far off sunset.

Just us, my son,
those last words.

I cannot recall
your first words spoken
nor now your last
with any precision.

Your death was not
my idea or decision,
nor yours to decide
or to know it seems.

Surreal maybe
as in half sleeps
or waking dreams.

I talk to you still
even though you've gone
to other realms
beyond my sense so far.

Sometimes I sense you
passing out of my eye's
corner view
like some shooting
(did I see that?)
star.

Good Friday. Dark purple over
All the statues. Grimstock stares
At windows coloured glass light
Shines through. Kim Keltis on his
Right dressed in black mind in prayer
Standing there. Crucified on a brass
Crucifix a Christ hangs the eyes
Closed arms stretched out the hands
Nailed. Grimstock’s eyes lower down
To the slim waist of Kim and lets
Eyes move over firm buttocks fleshy
Thighs her dark dress caressing.
Unaware of his eyes her eyes closed
Holds to prayer talks to God confident
God is there not knowing Grimstock’s
Stare.  Grimstock’s eyes like feelers
Reach and touch **** and feed in mind’s
Eye greedily the prayer book in his hands
Clutched tightly becomes part of the girl’s
Fleshy thighs becomes this becomes that
His dark eyes moving up rest upon her
Brushed hair. Kim standing still in prayer
Not aware Grimstock’s there with finger
From forehead to her breast from shoulder
To shoulder makes soft sign of the cross
Imagines her own sweet Crucified hangs
For her in pain there Sweet Jesus she mutters
Like eased breath. Grimstock dreams she’s
Undressed beside him in his bed making
Love passionate utterings ****** soft touches.
Kim opens her dark eyes sees Grimstock’s
Greedy stare travelling over her standing
There his rough eyes like fingers touching
Her ravishing her soft flesh ****** her in his
Mind and knowing that deep down that this
Man pushes hard onto her Jesus’ thorny crown.

Give these bacon rinds
to the dog
Auntie said

so I took the bacon rinds
from her hand
and took them out

on the black iron balcony
and holding one
of the bacon rinds up

over the reclining dog
I said
sit Dancer

and he sat up
eyeing the bacon rind
with his head tilted

to a degree
gently now
he took the bacon rind

gently between his teeth
and I let go my end
and he tossed it up

and caught it
in his mouth
and before he'd

swallowed it
he was sitting there again
with head tilted

looking at me
as I raised
another bacon rind up

and said
gentler Dancer
and he gently took

the bacon rind
between his teeth
and removed it

with the grace of a butterfly
then tossed it again
and swallowed it  

then sat again
and I held up
another bacon rind

and then put it
between my own
four year old teeth

and said
out of the corner
of my mouth

gently Gancer
and Dancer looked at me
and at the task ahead

and taking the bacon rind
between his teeth
he ever so gently

tugged at it
but I held onto my end
and there we were

each holding
the bacon rind
like two opposing dogs

he eyed me
and I eyed him
then I let go

and he tossed it up
and swallowed it
eyeing me

for the last piece of rind
I held it between
my small fingers

then tossed it
over the two storey balcony
to the ground beneath us

go get it Dancer
I said
and he raced off

down the black metal stairs
to fetch the last rind
did you give the dog

the bacon rind Benedict?
Auntie asked from inside
the apartment

yes Auntie I did
I said
in the gentlest voice

I could employ
good Benedict
good boy.

Father Joe died that year.
The Benedictine monk
who’d got you through
the worst of things.

Cancer got him in the end.
Your youngest daughter
was born that year but
nearly lost some heart

**** up the docs fixed
with their box of tricks
and the hand from God
you guessed. A year you’d

listened to Nellie Melba
from old opera recordings
on your Walkman sitting
on trains to the hospital

and back having visited
the sick wife and babe
both on different wards.
Before the babe was born

you and your wife had
visited the abbey grounds
where Father Joe had been
laid to rest with a simple cross.

Miss Pinkie cornered him
in the laundry room
there was no one else about
and she had him

against the wall
her plump body
pressing into him
making his pecker move

what if someone comes in?
he said
what’s the matter Professor
am I too hot for you?

he tried to move
from her but her body
had him fixed
and his pecker

was coming along fine
trying to push
its way forward
what about tonight?

she asked
maybe
he said
have to see

if I can make it
she ran a hand
over his trouser bulge
come on Professor

don’t be shy
you know you’ll come around
what if someone comes in
and sees us here?

he said
she sighed
and moved away
straightened up

her uniform
I can put on
some Mahler
and if you bring a bottle

we can have a good time
he tried to sort out
his pecker before
he moved on

ok
he said
I’ll be around
about 8pm

now can we get on
with our work?
she smiled
of course

she said
moving a side
letting him go by
better look after

Mr Pecker
she said
don’t want him
unfit or unwell

she laughed
and picked up
some soiled garments
and put them

in one of
the machines
and cupped in
some powder

and closed
the door
he left the room
hands in his pockets

and she thought
of the last night
they ******
with the Mahler

rising across the hall
the Resurrection Symphony
and she on her back
legs spread wide

and he
like some jockey
in for the ride.

Between full moons
And new moons he lived
Half crazy, or so he said,
Putting that down as his
Excuse for his raving moods
Of pinch and punch whatever
Time of the month, but you

Thought it best to wait and see
If it would all go away or if he’d
Grow out of it like an old sweater
Or maybe have some religious
Conversion and be a better person,
But he never did, and the cruising
For a bruising, as he said to you,

Continued, the moods changing,
Darkening, the rows, the words,
The up you signs, the pulling down
Of blinds before the beatings began,
(That sort of man), the neighbours
Saying, yes, he’s a good steady type,
Wouldn’t hurt a fly, smiles and says
Hello, how do you do, and goodbye.

Between summer sun to winter death,
You waited, bided your time, watched,
Felt, ached, then one winter morning,
Out of the blue, he stopped hitting you,
You hit him instead and now he’s silent,
Good to be around, because he’s dead.

You were lying on your back
on the grass beside Judith
three days after
the start

of the summer holidays
she was talking
about some girl
in her class at school

who wore stockings
instead of socks
and how her mother
thought that

(the wearing of stockings)
was quite too much
too grown up
and you were watching

the formation of the clouds
and how they changed shape
and colouring
becoming darker

then paler
and now and then
a bird would fly
across your vision

and you
only half listening
to her as she spoke
her words

touching your ears
her voice
like a kind of music
there lulling you

and you heard also
in the distance
the sound of a train
its puffing of steam

the sharp sound
of a horn
as it went by
the crossing

somewhere down
the track
but I wouldn’t wear stockings
Judith said

I like fresh air
getting to my legs
you have nice legs
you said

have I?
she said
yes
you said

right up to where
I can’t see no more
and she laughed
and smacked

at your arm
beside her
if my mother
could hear you

she’d not
let me near you again
a rook flew over head
its darkness in contrast

to the blue of sky
if she saw us last Sunday
she’d locked you up
you said

and Judith touched
your hand
next to hers
and held it

she mustn’t know
she whispered
course not
you said

well least not
until you’re fifty two maybe
and she laughed
and her laughter

disturbed the birds
and kind of
dissolved the cloud formation
into blueness

and you loved her
nearness
her touch
her being there

beneath clouds
and birds
and sky
and maybe always will

you thought
until the day we die.

An enormous
tragedy of grief  

sits on
the old man's

bent shoulders
his young son's

sudden demise
is always before

his weary eyes
it rises up

before him
with the dreary dawn

greets him
in the ticking

slow hours
of the dull day

(grief is like that
they say)

then sits with him
until the night owl

hoots him
to uneasy sleep

(his son's soul
to keep)

each time
he sits

to write
his worn words

his son watches
over

his bent shoulder
(or so he wishes

or hopes)
seeing his father's

fingers press
the keys

to conjure words
to soothe

the hurt
(they fail

but help
in one

untidy mess)
and maybe

his son's
ghostly hand

will touch
the shoulder's

ache of grief
(bringing in

the old man's
aged belief)

and maybe more
his whispered words

(with hint
of Mutley laugh

for sure)
to cheer or lift

his father's lowly
spirit high

saying although
the body's dead

the spirit's here
it does not die

and although
an enormous tragedy

of grief sits
on the old mans'

bent shoulders
it seems to sit

less heavy now
(although

deep hurting still)
somehow.

On the day
Mrs Modfig’s husband died

she was being rogered
by a Spaniard

she’d met
in Santa Fe  

staring at
the off white ceiling

with a
I’m being

well taken care of
feeling

and didn’t give
her husband

a second thought
thinking him

back home
working hard

sipping the sherry
smoking the cigar

feet up
watching TV

maybe seeing
that **** from the store

as he had before
no she was content

having this Spaniard
giving her the works

making the night
feeling young again

hoping for more sunshine
far away

from the rain
and her husband

and his moans and groans
and his occasional

rogerings
in their safe

and boring bed
and later

at the funeral
in her black hat

and dress and coat
and matching gloves

she shed
the crocodile tears

remembering
other loves.

Mrs Squires and Benedict
at the cheap hotel
in back street
off Charing Cross station

and she said
come on in
let's share this bath
and so he undressed

and there she was
in the water
waiting for him
and he climbed in

and sat opposite her
in the big bath
her shorter legs
between his

his longer legs
outside of hers
she lay back
her *******

sleeping puppies
her hands touching
his feet
come on

she said
don't be shy
and she tickled his toes
and tried to lift them

to her lips
he laughed
I see Percy's moving
she said

he looked at his pecker
rising in the water
needs a wash
she said

and that was that
and after in the room
by the noisy gas heater
in front

of the double bed
he dried
and watched
as she lay there smoking

her hair brushed back
her nightdress
covering her
and she said

wasn't the show good?
yes it was
he said
toweling his pecker dry

the dancers were good too
she inhaled
he studied her
wondered what

her husband would say
seeing her there
what he would have thought
of her bathing

with some young dude
in some cheap hotel
once he had dried
he put on

his dressing gown
and lay on the bed
beside her
and she offered him

a cigarette and lit it for him
and they watched
as their joint smoke
rose in swirling patterns

later
when the lights
were out
(except for the on and off

neon lights
from the street outside)
they made love
in the double bed

the springs going some
the gas fire hissing
like a box of snakes
and he thinking

of her husband
lying in some
other bed alone
with the lights out

and she thinking
of the best ***
she'd had in years
and more to come

and the on and off
neon lights
and somewhere
a gunshot

or car backfiring
and he wondering
what her husband
would say

or think
her having
a young stud
and a good lay.

Yiska feels as if
she's about to
split open
and her mind

pour out
all her thoughts
and feels like
she's about to *****

but she doesn't
now she feels
as if she's constipated
and the thoughts

and words
won't budge
and the mind quack
(psychiatrist)

sits opposite her
at his desk
and she sits
cross legged

staring at him
and out
of the window
behind him

she can see snow
falling
drifting slow
then fast

as if it can't
make up its mind
what to do
and on his desk

is a photograph
of a family group
of smiling faces
and she hates it

the smiling
that we are ok
and living well
kind of look

she says nothing
the words
have become
bunged up

in her head
and he talks
about ECT
about how it helps

depressives
and others
with mental
health issues

and all she wants
is to go back
to the locked ward
and sit

in the arm chair
by the window
and radiator
in her night gown

and think of nothing
just good old nothing
and wait until
Benny arrives

and sits beside her
and they both sit
and think of nothing
and nothingness

enfolds them
like a warm
fat mother
and they just

like to be
close to each other.

O Miss Pinkie said – she dropped the Mrs once her divorce came through although being a Catholic it didnt amount to much- if I could have my life over again and had the wisdom I have now and a lot of understanding of the human machine Id have lived differently and not married the **** I  did but there you go we must live forward and not backward although at times we wish we could but we cant so there you are and as a child coming from a strict Catholic family church going and the Mass were our Sundays highlight or so it seemed at the time and the priest as often at our house as a neighbour or a member of the close family and would come and sit and drink and eat and say things about others and how so and sos daughter had gone by the  wayside and needed taking in hand and my father said any daughter his going by any wayside would get a good tanning of their backside and the priest saying that is a way going from homes now but my father said not here Father not here and it was true as my sister knew as she was many a time feeling his hand on her backside if she step out of line and me too now and then and my mother stood in his shadow and said do as your father says and would shake a finger at us if she thought we were out of step with our fathers wishes and a cousin wanted to join the Little Sisters and encouraged me to go too and talked me into it when I was old enough and with my fathers blessing- blessing being his agreement or his say so- and he said I know what men are like youre better off there with the Sisters than with with some of the specimens around here in Glasgow to wed and bed so I joined the Little Sisters as did the cousin and were set to become brides of Christ but I couldnt settle to it never had the vocation for the life what with all those maidens and their narrow views and the cousin went first and within a month or two was out with a man named Scott and before you could say hows your ***** off for spots she was up the aisle dressed in the white with the thin rod of a man beside her and within a seventh month she dropped a babe- his we assumed- and then just before I was due to take my simple vows I left too much to my fathers annoyance and being put out by it he said nothing to me for months on end turned his back on me if I entered the house- lived after leaving with my cousin her her thin man and the babe in a room in the attic- but he came around and knowing he could no more put me over his knee he used his words to have a go at me if I stepped beyond his likes then I met the man who was to be and was my husband and on the first date- the cinema where else- it was kiss kiss and fiddle fiddle in the back rows with others also so inclined and after a few weeks he had me in his bed-he lived in digs as he called them- and I knew nothing then about *** or anything relating to that side of matters and I was surprised by what he was doing and where and how and I said is this how it is? and he said it was and had always been so and so it was and I got to enjoy it after the first few times and then we had our child a boy and then my husband got a job away a lot and then he started having it with other women or girls while away and I had it fewer and fewer times until one day I found out about them all and I said no more with me and he said good and left and that was it and I brought up our son on my own until he left home to get a job abroad and I was alone and began needing to work myself having no husband to support me and it was there that my met young Baruch-Benedict he called himself but I liked Baruch better- and at first I never thought about him and *** and that because he was nineteen years younger than I was and I was old enough to be his mother but he had that way with him and he said can I come to your place I want to read you some my my writings and so I said yes and he came and I gave him whiskey or wine and I put on music on the record player and he read his work and I watched him read and sensed him near me and the drink softened him up and the music got to him and he said I need you and I said in what way? he said in what way and I went and undressed and came back in a kimono and he said I looked like a Japanese woman he once saw in a book and he drank more and then he undressed and so it began almost every other night after work in the evenings hed come around and we had drinks and he brought some Mahler and  we played that and it became our love music and he had me in ways id not been had before and played at spanking me prior to ******* me- as he called it- and it reminded me of my father- the spankings not the *** of course- and it made me tingle and sometimes it was on my double bed often or not if we couldnt make it on the sofa with the Mahler symphony blaring away and the glasses empty and him over me and I eyeing him or closing my eyes imagining him and sometimes he was underneath me and it was him and me and Mahler and his hand on my behind and him in me and hed say come on come on and I was becoming out of breath feeling my age or so it seemed then he met some young girl and that was it I was alone again and sat listening to Mahler and I drank my ***** thinking of him knowing he would leave after all he was just a boy I was getting to be older but wanting to recall our nights together and Mahler and whiskey and that time we had it on the carpet the carpet soft and thick and he saying wheres the fence where can we ride? and we laughed and that time at work in the wash room where I got him stiff as a rifle and ready to shoot but it was too public and he had to walk it off but then he left work and it became a mere echo of former days my hair less dyed letting my hairs become different coloured greys.

Apart from the water tower
and the farm

and a few scattered cottages
there were no other buildings

for a mile or more
just you and Jane

and birds in the early morning sky
I like it at this time of day

she said
I like the fresh smell of nature

and the farm
and having few people about

you walked beside her down the lane
that led away from the farm

you noticed how her black hair
seemed freshly washed

and blew slightly in the mild wind
does you father mind

you being out with me?
you asked softly

he doesn’t know
she replied

he thinks I came out alone
for a morning walk

why didn’t you tell him?
you asked

he was busy writing his Sunday sermon
and it was easier to just go out

and not disturb him
she said looking around at you

her eyes studying you
as she walked on down the lane

would he mind you being with me?
you asked

I don’t think he knows you as yet
seeing as you have only moved here

a few months and don’t come
to the church

you stopped and took her hand in yours
it was warm and soft

and pulsed with life
she looked at your hand

holding hers and she rubbed
her thumb over the back

of your hand
you wanted to kiss her lips

or cheek just to feel
her flesh on yours

but you didn’t you just looked at her
and waited to see

what she would do next
she let go of your hand

and looked around her
there might be people looking

from those cottages up there
she said suddenly pointing up

at the rising bank which went up
to two cottages high up

if they see us they may tell Father
and then it would be awkward

and he might suspect things
and then she went quiet

and looked at the running stream
by the lane

but we haven’t done anything
we just walk out and talk

and hold hands now and then
it’s not what we do

it’s what others think we do
she said softly

and stood looking at you
waiting for you to speak

but you said nothing
just leaned in close to her

and kissed her cheek
and said

even Christ permitted kisses
even the one from Judas

and she smiled
and the early morning sun

pushed through trees
and shone on her hair

and there was the sound of birds
singing in the air.

My old man
was always
neat and tidy.  

Brylcreemed hair
(what was left),
smart suit,
shiny shoes,
brown brogues,
well trimmed moustache,
staring eyes.

Get your best shirt
and trousers on,
we're going to see
this new Jeff Chandler film,
Western, and put on
that bow-tie I bought you
and make sure
your shoes are shiny,
he said.

I went and got changed
and put on the bow-tie
he bought(how I hated
that thing) and shoes
buffed to a shine of sorts,
short trousers,
the next to best,
and I was ready,
kissing mother
on the way out.

We went in the cinema
a 1/3 of the way through
the first feature,
sat in the seats,
his eyes fixed
on the screen,
I looking around
to see who was in
and who was who.  

I looked at him
beside me;
the neat moustache,
well trimmed,
the eyes watching
the screen,
a cigarette between lips,
smoke rising.

I recalled the time
at another cinema,
another film,
another Western,
and we were ¾
the way through,
when he ups
and leaves
in a sudden rush.

I watched the screen
and chewed the popcorn,
thinking the old man
had gone to the bog,
an adult thing
or so I thought.

Then 5 minutes after
a young usherette
came and found me
and said:
your father's with the medics
in the foyer,
he had a choking fit.

Poor guy,
I thought,
him sat there
blue and white,
not having had a ****.

Ernie’s big sister
was a *****
or so
your old man said

although
he didn’t say
what she did
or what

she was for
you often saw her
go out
in the evenings

from the downstairs
lower flat
on the corner
dressed in a short

red skirt with
a slit at the back
and high heel shoes
and her hair

up high
in a beehive style
or you’d see her
by the entrance

to the Square
standing there
talking to some guy
with that

come **** me look
in her eye
but no one told you
what a ***** was

or did that part
of the action
your old man hid
you thought

she was a small time
actress like the ones
you saw on
the big screen

who stood in saloons
when the cowboys
came in or was a moll
who hung on to some

gangster’s arm in those
black and white films
you saw on winter
afternoons

but when you went
by her standing there
or she spotted you
up on the balcony

of the flats
she’d wave or smile
but seldom spoke
other than to say

hi there kid
or how’s your old man
and off she’d go
with her tight skirt

with the slit
at the back
and her wiggling ***
and high heel shoes

and her hair piled high
with that
come have me later
look in her eye.

Christine winds
the necklace
around her

going red
small finger
the small linked

silver chain
swells the flesh
why do that?

the quack asks
to get me
away from

deeper pain
she utters
the quack scowls

his eyebrows
like dark birds
join in deep

hovering
signs of non
approval

she unwinds
the necklace
the finger

once again
turning white
practising

she whispers
shoving it
deep within

the cleavage
of her plump
bra-less *******

the quack stares
like some kid
taken in

by an old
conjurer’s
sleight of hand

all gone now
can't see trick
you big *****

she mutters
feeling then
the warm chain

fall between
her closed thighs
sitting there

silver links
shut away
from his eyes.

Who is the boy?
Sophia's father asked.

Sophia looked at him:
the greying moustache,
dark eyes,
short,  
but solid build.

A friend from work,
she said.

Her mother walked
in the background
never interfered.

What's his name?
The father asked,
examining her,
eyes searching
her features for signs
of lies or deception.

Benedict,
she replied,
good Catholic boy,
nurse.

The father
walked past her,
then circled her.

She thought of Benny
having nodded
and spoken briefly
to her parents then
had left the house.

Good ***.

Miał dobry ****,
she said to herself
in Polish,
pretending she was
talking to her father.

Not dare.

Good Catholic?
Her father said,
he come to the house
and no one to safe guard
your honour here?

We talked; had coffee,
she said,
thinking of the safe things.

Those outside
may think otherwise,
he said.

Who?
Sophia asked,
sensing her father
walking behind her,
as he did when
she was a child,
then WHACK WHACK,
he did to her as a child.

Now he just walked
around her, hands behind
his back.

Neighbours see
these things,
think what they think,
he said,
in front of her
staring at her eyes.

Those who sin, see sin,
she said,
holding herself firm,
eyeing her mother
in the background,
no words,
not a sound.

This Benedict,
he likes you?
The father asked.

Yes, he does,
she replied,
thinking of Benny
******* *******.

He must consider
how it could looks
to others,
her father said,
not come while
we are out.

She nodded,
looked at her feet,
wiggled her toes.

He may come while
we are here,
her father conceded,
eyeing her firmly,
walking away,
hands behind his back.

She breathed out
relieved
no whack
whack whack.

Yehudit sat with her chin
on her knees and her hands
wrapped about her bare legs,
staring at the water of the pond.

Flies hovered over the water's
skin, ducks swam, birds flew
or sang. Baruch sat beside her,
hands on the grass either side
of him, watching the scene,
smelling her scent, liberated
(Yehudit claimed from her
mother's room), dabbed on
liberally. Marilyn Monroe's
dead, he said. Suicide I heard,
she replied. Or other, he said,
someone wanted her dead.

Papers say suicide, she said,
least ways she out of it. I liked
her, he said, many a guy dreams
of her I suppose. Are you one
of those? she asked. Is a guy
responsible for his dreams? he
said, turning his head, taking
in her profile, goddess like, he
thought, nose, chin, lips and all.

Who would you like to wake up
to me or Monroe? she asked,
giving him the steady stare.

You now, of course, he replied,
now she's died. Yehudit slapped
his arm, seriously even if she
hadn't popped her clogs? He
saw a rook fly across the pond,
noise attending, flap of wings.

You of course, he said, even if
she lived; you'd be my first choice,
he added in whispered voice.

She closed her, leaned her damp
forehead on her knees, hands
holding her legs tight. There
was no wind, just afternoon
warm sunlight. I dream of you
often, she said, here by the
pond, in the classroom, in my
single bed. He smiled at this,
wanting to give her lips a kiss.

He viewed her thigh out of the
corner of his eye. Her green
skirt had lowered down, thus
revealing such. He loved the
way she was: her hair, her eyes
open or closed, her lips in motion
or still, her hands at rest or play.

They'd not made it to her bedroom,
her mother was always around,
upstairs or down; they'd not made
his bedroom either (he shared with
his brother) and of course, he didn't
want to shock his mother. In dear
Yehudit's dreams of him they'd made
it it seemed, although he didn't share
because he wasn't there, which he
thought unfair. On the sports field
at school, I heard, you see another,
she said, her voice hesitant, her
words hanging in the air. Oh that's
nothing, he said, just a girl with
a crush, no big deal. So Yehudit
looked away. Sunlight danced on
the water's skin, warming flies
and ducks and fish beneath within.

He wondered how he lied. Words
came out of their own accord.
That other on the sports field,
who'd wormed into his mind
and heart, filled his night and
dreams (more than Monroe had
or did), but because he didn't
want to injure dear Yehudit's
mind or heart, he kept it hid.

Noga watched
the other girls play.

Skip rope or
ballgames
or groups
in idle chatter.

She was left out,
an outsider,
she said
it didn’t matter,
but deep down
it did.

The others
had new dresses
and shoes,
their hair shone
with the washing
each day,
spoke about her
as she went by
their way.

The boys preferred
the pretty girls,
the ones who shone
or outshone her
or who promised
them more
as they giggled
and swooned
and swayed their hips
or pushed out
their tingling ****.

Their parents
picked them up
in posh cars;
she walked
the long trek
on worn-out shoes;
their parents spoke
with clipped voices
and la-de-da tones;
hers spoke
or shouted
or pushed out
groans or swore;
blamed her bruises
on arms or legs
on the usual door,
to those who cared
or casually stared.

Noga watched the girls
kissing boys,
saw their lips meet,
their hands in play,
but no boy kissed her,
no lips met hers,
no hands in play
sought to touch
her skin.

She only had
pretend romance
or maybe dreams
of shining knights
on big white horses,
no real love,
like other girls
with their
hot lip kisses
or overt ***
and intercourses.

The tulips have gone over,
Here and there, their bloomless stalks
Are like decapitated
Corpses in some religious

Foreign state. The Mayflower
Is in bloom like a splendid
Bride, white blossoms, and hidden
Branches, where many birds hide,

Whose beautiful songs echo
The countryside, a chorus
Of angels in paradise.
In the house, curtains are drawn,

In the bedroom, a woman
Lies strangled over her bed,
A red cord about her neck;
Her blue eyes staring lifeless

At the pink flowered curtains,
Which seem faded in the sun.

Gran said
you can come with us
to the fair

Janice said
Provided your mum agrees
of course but Gran’s

already asked your mum
so it’s all right
you stood outside

the school gates
waiting for your mother
to come and pick you up

and so you said
Oh right that’ll be good
but you didn’t want Helen

to know you were going
to the fair with Janice
and even though

you hadn’t planned it
or asked for it
you still felt guilty

about going
with Janice to the fair
and when Helen

came out of school
and stood waiting
next to you

for her mother
you hoped Janice
wouldn’t say

anything about it
but Janice just stood there
smiling looking at Helen

as if to say he’s going with me
to the fair and you’re not
and Helen gazed at Janice

at the same time
putting her hand
near yours

and you could feel
her hand brush
against yours

and then she turned
and looked at you
through her

thick lens glasses
her eyes searching you
like a navigator

looking for a fresh route
to a new world
and Janice moved closer

on your other side
her hand seeking out
a finger to hold

and she said
Look here comes Gran
and she released

your finger and ran
and you stood with Helen
waiting

knowing her hand
was warm and feeling yours
and hoping she couldn’t

read minds
or thoughts
or know about the fair

and she said suddenly
giving your hand a squeeze
Here’s your mum and mine

let’s go meet them
and off you ran
following behind

feeling a sense of betrayal
being a traitor to Helen
in your 7 year old mind.

Baruch sipped the wine
Geula the waitress
had brought; he watched
her walk away, her hips

hypnotic, the sway of them,
dream inducing. Red wine,
sour, table used, not the best.
He rinsed his mouth, then he

swallowed.  How she could smile,
he thought, the lips of her,
the teeth, the red tongue.
He could dream of course,

dreams are cheap, cost
nothing, are in the end,
nothing. He could watch her
for hours; see her walk the

restaurant in the evenings
serving meals and wine,
the smile always in place,
that swaying of hips, hands

busy, the eyes bright lights.
Some evenings he stayed until
late, she on her last legs,
about to go off duty, seeing

him, stopped to say goodnight.
She said she was not permitted
to date guests. Too complicated,
she supposed. Hotel rules, she

said, nonetheless. She smiled
and walked off. He could dream
she had said yes, of course where
shall we go? Wherever you wish,

he would have said. Knowing
nowhere, he would have left it to
her to choose. Where would that
have been? What cost? He watched

as the last glimpse of her disappeared
beyond doors. The last glimpse of hers
hips and swaying behind. The music
faded, the restaurant lights dimmed.

He stood up, walked away and stood outside.
The moon was full; stars like sprinkled
diamonds, lit the sky. One last look,
he thought, then off to bed, to see
dreams of Geula within my head.

Her mother prepared lunch
in the kitchen
as you and Christina
sat and talked

in the lounge
she looked back
at the kitchen door
and whispered

she's in one
of her depressing moods
she doesn't say much
when she like this

that's ok
you said
I'm just glad
to be here with you

you said
you put your hand
on her thigh
moving her grey skirt

she turned
and kissed you quickly
listening for the sound
of her mother's movement

in the kitchen
her lips on yours
her hand on your leg
her body close to yours

you could feel
her heartbeat against you
her warm hand
on your leg

the pulse of her
getting to you
and the sound
of her mother

banging about
in the kitchen
you paused from kissing
and sat back

her hands
in her lap
your hands
by your side

on the sofa
you couldn't believe
you were there
beside her

next to her body
her eyes focusing on you
you taking in her hair
and eyes

and the sound
of her mother's footsteps
getting nearer
her voice muttering

her approach coming near
and you moved over
and kissed Christina's cheek
the warm flesh

bearing away
on your lips
packed away
in your mind

like some treasure trove
as her mother came in
and brought two plates
and cokes

and put them down
and walked away
no words said
just that look

she gave
that eying
you up and down
that wondering

if you had or not
or if you would
behind her back
as she returned

to the kitchen's span
her ears alert
for sounds
you might make

the touching of lips
the smack of flesh engaged
her mind on edge
her nerves taut

as high wire
but you
and her daughter
just sat and ate

hoping to get down
to other things
(****** or otherwise)
at a later date.

She'd run
from the shelter
of the old

corrugated shed
to the shelter
of the trees

you followed
seeing her ahead
happy to be away

from school
a job lined up  
and you too

glad to be away
from the brain washing
and having that job

at the garage
to begin
and she ran

through the narrow rides
of the wood
knowing you

were behind her
looking back
at you as

she ran
and past
the small pond

and she stood there
looking at it
the pond water

discoloured
by cast away tins
and *******

and she said
not what it used to be
and you stood

beside her looking
at the still pond
the brown water

and she said
I used to come here
as a little girl

and bathe here
with my sister
wish I'd known

you said
before you came
she said

anyway
we were only 8 or 9
as were you

so it wouldn’t have
amounted to much
depressing seeing it

like this
she added
let's go elsewhere

you said
go to the our lake
she smiled

yes you remember
our name
for the large pond  

so you both
walked on
and over

the wooden fences
and across the field
by cows

avoiding cow pats
and over
by the lake

where she sat
on the grass
gazing

at the clear water
the ducks swimming there
fish under

the water's skin
just visible
do you remember

when we first
came here?
she asked

you nodded
we were so
shy together

we just about
found words
to speak

and our fingers
nearly touched
and I blushed

and it was
so innocent
so white

and silky
and that first kiss
that was so magical

so non-******
and she laughed
and you sat beside her

and said
are all first kisses
like that

do you think?
ours was
she said

you thought on it
so unexpected
so unplanned

under
a full moon
lips warming

softly wet
and she turned
to you there

sitting by the lake
and gave another kiss
deeper

longer
more tongue
and warmth

more ******
and sensual
and the ducks

and fish
beneath
the water's skin

cared not
if it was love
or lust

or grace
or sin.

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.

Guess where I slept
last night?
Lydia asks me

no idea
I say

the cot bed again
as my sister
and her Spiv boyfriend
wanted the bed
and I was turfed out
and Gloria

-her big sister-

said Mum said
she could as the boyfriend
has been kicked out
of his digs
and he needs a bed
for a few nights

we cross over
the New Kent Road
by the Zebra Crossing
the sky is overcast
dark clouds

and later while
I was supposed
to be asleep  
Gloria says
are you asleep Lydia?

I pretended
to be asleep
and my eyes closed
facing the wall
my backside
sticking out
as its too small for me

she's asleep
Gloria told her boyfriend

good
he says

and I heard funny noises

what funny noises?
I ask

odd sounds
like the Spiv
is trying suffocate her

I know she's a pain
in the ****
but he doesn't have
to try and suffocate her

but I said nothing
just pretended
to be sleeping
then it gets even nosier
and Gloria says to him
more more
and I thought
more what?

but I never asked
I just guessed
he was giving her
some sweets or something

we stop in front
of the ABC cinema
and look at
the small photos
outside showing
what film is on

isn't that Marilyn Monroe?
she asks
in the photos

yes it is
I say

so what do you think
about sharing sweets
at bedtime?
she asks me
do all people do that
who sleep in the same bed
share sweets?

I guess so
I say
but my brother
and I don't
we just sleep
after nights are out

but she says
I wish I knew what
the fight was all about.

A book lay open
on the table
by her bed
I looked

at the cover
blue
well worn
named Byron

a friend gave me it
Julie said
can't make head
or tails yet

the ward was quiet
blinds
were pulled up
sunlight came in

blue and white
over duller white
she in a flowery gown
pink flowers

small
on white cloth
tied at the waist
leg crossed over

the other
slippered feet
thin ankles
not read him

I said
died in Greece
she said
who?

I asked
Byron
she said
she pulled a cigarette

from an open packet
and lit up
I’ve read Shelley
I said

he drowned in Italy
I think
she inhaled
smoke rose

grey
white
lifting ceiling ward
thin fingers

held
fingers parted
slightly curved
as if sculptured

I sat
on her hospital bed
firm
blue blanket

white pillows
solid
Guy's in the slammer
she said

drug taking
and selling
I said nothing
looked at her lips

holding the cigarette
opened and closed
hair untidy
won't see him

in a while
the parents
will be glad
didn’t like him

have class of course
his parents that is
she said
I studied the cleavage

where the gown
lay open
small valley
darkness sinking

when I get out of here
she said
we must meet
in London again

I looked away
from her cleavage
outside
the sound

of hard
falling rain.

Honey Hopesapper hanged on an oak.
The wind caressed her.
The birds sang as normal.

The sky turned a little darker,
But no one came; no one saw.
Honey doped herself high.

Honey knew grief.
Knew the pinpricks of other’s indifference.
Honey had pinpricks scars.

She knew **** and cold nights.
Her daddy grieved her mom;
Her mom grieved her.

All grieved at death’s door, as if awaiting wolves.

Dalya argues
with the German,
but she understands
nothing he says.

Fick dich?
What's that mean?
She asks me.

Best you don't know.

Is he swearing at me?

I nod.
The German walks off;
his broad shoulders swinging.

Who does
he thinks he is?

German, I guess.

She gestures
with her middle digit
at his departing back.
What did he say?
She asks.

Guess.

Sounded rude.

The German guy
has gone around a corner.
(I am glad).

We walk
to the next café
and sit at a table
near the window.

A waitress
takes our order
and walks off
to the back,
her hips swaying
her black skirt.

He was in the wrong,
Dalya says.

Guess he
didn't think so.

But he was
and his attitude stank
and he was **** ugly.

She foams at the mouth;
her eyes are bright
and full of anger.

Life's too short.

Short or long
that Square Head
was in the wrong.

I look at her
sitting there;
the hair drawn tight
in a bun
at the back
of her head;
her jaws rigid.

She smells
of cheap soap
and cigarettes.

If I was a man,
I’d have thumped him.

If you had been a man
he'd have thumped
you first.

The waitress
brings our order
and puts out
the coffees
and cream cakes,
then smiling at me,
she walks off,
swaying again.

I imagine;
thinking of
another place
and time.

Fick dich, to him, too,
she says,
stirring her coffee.

I imagine he might.

What?

Do as you request.

She looks at me,
her eyes focusing on me
like an eagle at prey.

And to think
they thought they
were a superior race.

Human error, I suppose.

They weren't;
I had relatives
gassed in Belsen.

She looks away;
her eyes watery;
lips drawn tight.

That's not down to race,
that's down
to human folly
and wickedness.
I had a friend
whose father helped
clear out Belsen;
he was in the army;
****** his head,
I say.

She says nothing;
silence descends
and caresses us
in its cold arms;
breathing in our ears.

I look at her;
eyes full of tears.

It was the summer of love,
at least that's what they said.
There were guys with long
hair and beards and beads,

with wide trousers, and loud
shirts, and girls with long
hair, and dresses like nuns,
or short skirts, showing off

their not so good legs or thighs.
There was Hendricks, Beatles
and Stones and playing, music
loud, live. Julie was out for

the day; the hospital quacks,
giving her a day pass, no
shooting up, no pill popping.
She met Ben in Trafalgar

Square, tight skirt and top,
hair held in a ponytail, bright
eyed, big smile. He was
by the fountains having a

smoke, eyeing the girls,
listening to some long
haired guy strum a guitar,
his skinny girlfriend doing

a dance, her bony legs
looking breakable, ****
non existent. Been here
long? Julie said. No, just

a few moments, he lied,
not wanting to give her
reasons to moan or row.
She wanted to go for a beer.

So he took her to the bar
off Charing Cross Road
and ordered two cold beers
and lit up some smokes.

She spoke of some nurse
who almost lost her her pass,
all about some **** up, over  
drugs, she’d forgotten to take.

She said the quacks were ok
with it, the tall one is hot,
she said, shouldn’t mind him
poking around in my parlour.

He told her about the Charles
Lloyd jazz album he'd bought,
how he'd met him outside Dobell's,
got a sign copy of the new L.P.

She drained her drink and he
ordered another two, she took
one of  his smokes and lit up
and sat back, crossing her legs,

her black short skirt riding her
thighs, ******* in his eyes.
No place for ***, she said,
unless you know of a bed

and room going cheap for
an hour or so?  No luck,
he said, wishing he did,
remembering the fast shaft,

the quickie in the hospital
broom room, amidst brooms
and brushes and buckets
or boxes and all. She said

her parents rang, and they
argued, and she slammed
down the phone. They said
it was the summer of love,

but where they sat, boozing
and smoking, it fell pretty flat.

They each shared
the same mother
shared the same loss of her

when the time came
gave the same
last wave  

when she was
driven off
to crematorium

and then grave
but each had
their own mother

whom they shared
with no other
one with whom

they shared  
a particular time
or place

sitting quietly
face to face
sharing a secret

or confessing
a deed done
or just

the mother to child meeting
with just the two
at some given time

at some particular place
some given year
to share a problem

or tears or anxieties
or deeper fears
and knowing

she would listen
as only mother’s can
or do

sharing the time and love
with each particular
person called you

whether daughter or son
she shared
her equal love and time

and yet each knew her
each thought
they knew her best

and carried away
their own best times
in her company

without the rest
their own moments shared
but deep down

they knew
she had her love for each
and each was equal

to the rest
for she never had
a favourite

nor considered
any one the best
so they all shared

the same mother
in the end
all grieved her going

each in their own way
hoping or believing
they would share her

once again
some better place
some future day.

She’d tell you
which group of stars

were what
in the evening sky

as you stood outside
the church after

choir practice
of a Friday night

and her finger
would lift up

and point it all out
and her words

would drift
on the night air

like cigarette smoke
and you held onto

her every word
as she spoke

not for what she said
of night sky

or constellation of stars
but for the sound

of her voice
how it disturbed

the universe
made the deadly silence

less deadly
how they could bring

you in close to her
could embrace you

as she did
when no one

was looking
or you were both alone

some place standing
or sitting face to face

and that particular night
as she pointed up

and out
her other hand

grabbed yours
in the evening dark

and gave a squeeze
and hold

and then let go
how deep

that love was back then
is hard to figure

but love it was
you know.

O yes
this is love
this is what Miriam knows
as love

not the maybe
kind of love
or what her mother
would have called

courting love
but the real thing
the thing that hits you
in the guts

that makes you not want
to eat or drink
but want to dream
yourself silly

over the kind of
love feeling
that drives you mad
with the thinking

of the thing
and yes
as the ordinary people
walk by

she feels sorry for them
not knowing
this love she feels
not understanding

that there's more to life
than the next meal
or pay rise
or promotion

if that was anything at all
at least not now
she feels like shouting
to the world not now

and o if only
he were here
if only he could see her now
sitting in her blue

short skirt
and pink jumper
and those underwear
he bought her

with the soft feel
on that stall
he said sit on
and o

she could squeeze herself
could hug her body
in a frenzy of excitement
and o to be in his arms

and feel his warmth
and to feel his cheek
on hers
and his hand

holding her hand
and giving it
that little tug
of here we go Honey

let’s show the world
where it can get off
because this is love
she says

this is the big one
and she can sense
her body glow
and her pulse rocket

through her *******
and arms and feet
and thighs
and o a thousand

other places
the world will never see
or know about
and yes this is it

this is the kind of
wake me
in the morning at 2 am
and kiss me

and rock me
and this is love
her mother never knew
not in all her

big American life
not in New York
or Chicago or no place
her mother knew

this kind of love pinch
this sort of electric buzz
of a feel
especially when he holds her

and blows
those small breaths
into her ears
and sometimes

between her thighs
o my God what to do?
where to go?
o this is the big one

this the time
to live life
to the full love
to stand on the ledge

of a tall building
and scream out
kind of love feel
and if he will show

right now in this room
and come in and say
love you Honey
love the woman you are

and she wants him
and wants his feel
his lips
his everything

is that him?
was that
the door bell ring?
no just the mailman

with a letter from him
saying in his neat pen
saying he can’t make tonight Honey
but maybe when.

Beyond the pram sheds
Chana rode her bike.

I was with Helen
watching from the balcony
of the flats.

Rides well,
doesn't she?
Helen said.

I watched
as Chana rode
around and around
the pram sheds.

Wish I had a bike,
but my parents
can't afford one,
I said.

Mine neither;
even the doll's pram I’ve got
is from a jumble sale.

Chana rode down the *****
and out of sight.

What about Battered Betty?
where did that doll come from?

My grandmother
gave it to me;
I think it was hers.

Where do you
want to go?
I asked her.

What about the park
and ride on the swings?

Sure, fine.

So we walked
down the stairs
and out through
the Square;
the morning
sunshine warming;
other kids playing
here and there;
the baker's
horse and cart
parked by the wall
of the other flats.

The park was busy;
the swings
were all occupied;
the slide and see-saw
were also engaged.

We waited,
sitting in a seat nearby,
she talking of wanting
a new doll's pram
she'd seen in a shop
and I listening,
taking in
her two plaited bunches
of brown hair;
her thick lens glasses
and us
being there.

And it was the first time,
that kiss, that Christmas.

You and she were walking
just behind the other members
of the church choir, carol singing,
the parson, conducting the members,
he in overcoat, hat on, scarf
against the cold, the evening air.

And she said, softly, so only
you could hear, softer than
the snow that threatened to fall,
I think I love you.

You, looking at her there,
standing inches away,
her breath high-lighted
in the light of moon
and the houses near by,
said, I love you, too.  

Words, spread, as if
on free rein, like little children
off on some adventure,
some new game,
came quick and fast.

Then, she leaned in,
and kissed your lips,
pressed them so gently
on yours. So gently
that it seemed they met
yet seemed not to
in same breath.

You embraced her,
arms about her,
drawing her nearer,
her body, into yours,
warmth and warmth,
like two planets colliding,
not in crash, but as if
merged, entwined, as if one.

The sound of some carol
being sang breathed
on the air, floated there,
held in balance
by the gentle wind.

You and she parted lips
and bodies, but held hands,
a new love had been born,
a new fire started, feeling
erupted along the strings
of nerves, set mind on fire
with a new, unknown, never
before experienced,
out of this world desire.

The show's not over
till the fat lady snores,
I should know,
I was there, 1973  
or 74 and Mahler
still playing
on her Hi-Fi,
the last movement
of the Ist symphony.

We liked that, made
love to it, wondering
what Gustav
would have made
of that, the fat dame
and me, empty
whiskey glasses
on the table, curtains
drawn against
the night sky and moon.

The first time
she snored,
her soft whiskey breath,
her globes caught
in moon's glow,
her closed eyes
like upturned shells.

Her Scottish tongue
soft but sharp, her
flab sufficient
to keep warm
if needed,
but it was along ago,
she's gone now,
so I heard, my fat
dame lover, my ***
making love bird.

Broderick was the smallest kid
in the class
but the girls liked him

and he had this
mass of blacks curls
and big dark eyes

and had this way with him
that the girls liked
and they would gather round him

when the teacher
was out of the room
leaning over

his shoulders
whispering things
into his small ears

and he'd say something
and they wet themselves
laughing

putting fingers
to mouths or bellies
and saying

oh my God
or
I've never heard

such a thing
and then put their hands
to their virginal groins

but you and Reynard
saw no great humour in him
or saw what it was

that creased the girls up
to the degree
of ***** wetting

(Reynard's expression)
because out in
the boy's playground

he never said jackshit
or made a sound
or joined in ball games

or cards flicking
or conker smashing
he just hung around

the fence
peering out
at the girls

on the playing field
playing hockey
or some other

ball games
in their short
green skirts

that showed
their green underwear
when they jumped

or ran along with sticks
and some guys would say
hey Broderick

what about us guys
what about joining in
with our games

or talk with us
but he never did
and Reynard said

he must have something
the girls like
small Broderick

possibly his big dark eyes
you said
or his humour

Reynard said
or promise
of his big ****.

He’s gone off to war once more.
Polly has seen him leave from
an upstairs window. Master George
in his smart uniform getting into

the family car.  He looked up at her
and took of his hat. No one else
looked thank God. Now she has
to sleep in the attic with Susie again

and not with George and his
warm loving ways and beautiful ***.  
She stands by the window until
the car is out of sight. No more ***

for her tonight. Susie had the sulks
for the days she slept alone, the
cold sheets, the lone pillow, none
to hug and hold against the cold.

Polly walks from the window with
her mop and bucket and enters
the room where they’d lain the
night before and mops the floor.

She imagines he is still there in his
bed, the pillow embracing his dark
haired head, his eyes soaking her in,
drinking her up. She wants now to

imagine him putting his hands about
her waist, squeezing, kissing her neck,
the damp patches on her skin. War
mustn’t maim him or **** him, she

mutters, moving the mop, war must
not take him from me. The bedroom
window is open to the morning air.
She leaves the mop and sniffs the

pillow where he lies no more. Her
cheek lies where he lay; she can sense
his smell, sniff him into her head, wanting
him back and whole, not lying in No Man’s

Land wounded or dead. Dudman the butler
calls her name, along the passageway,
his footsteps treading, bellowing like a
cow in labour, she grabs the mop and

mops away, saves her thoughts of George
and love and *** for another day.

We ran
into the large
hollowed out tree
half way up

the Sussex Downs
to get out
of the downpour of rain
we were drenched

our clothes hung on us
as if plastered
to our skins
her hair flattened

to her skull
or hung down
like rat's tails
touching

her damp shoulders
I felt the wet
tee-shirt
cling to my chest

as I moved
looking out
of a hole
at the side

of the tree
into the trees around
and the grey sky
through tall branches

above
didn't expect that
I said
smelling her scent

as she moved nearby
just as well
this tree was near
or we'd be worse

than we are now
Jane said
she brushed down
her soaking

flowered dress
with her hands
her white socks
and black shoes

looked bright
in the half light
what are we going
to do now?

I asked
wait until it stops
she said
maybe it was just

a passing shower
she looked out
at the glimpse
of sky

grey and dull
we'll catch a death
in these wet clothes
I said

they'll dry on us
she said
I could feel
the water squelch

in my shoes
as I pushed
my toes down
I guess soldiers

in World War One
had this problem
in the trenches
I said

wetness and such
feeling cold
and of course
they had bombs

and rats
and shells
and bullets whizzing
by the head

I guess
one should
be stoic
she said

after all
the rain will go
and we can
at least

go home and dry
and change
into other clothes
I don't feel stoic

I said
I feel
like a drenched dog
she looked at me

and laughed
you look
like a drenched dog
she said

her dress clung
to her body
revealing
her figure

showing each aspect
of her form
she looked up
at the sky

looks like
it may be
about to stop
she said

and as she moved
nearby me
a brush of her arm
sent tingles

along my nerves
thrilling me
but causing
an odd alarm.

You want to look how Mother looked.
Makeup she used to use lies on her
Dressing table in the room father has
Had locked up. You have secreted the
Key and unlocked and closing the door,
Are sitting facing your image in the mirror’s
Glass you’ve propped against a chair. You
Do not have your mother’s hair. You have
Her eyes, Father said, although he says it
Less now since her death, as if stealing
From the dead. You want to transform
Yourself into her; be the woman she was;
Have her beauty; have her smile; her gentle
Manner. Cancer took her like thief at night;
Reduced her to a bag of bones and hanging
Skin, pale and thin. Forget that image, Father
Chides, cast it away, lock behind the mind’s
Dark doors. You want to look how Mother
Looked before her sad demise, before cold
Cancer’s deceit and lies. Still a child, Father
Says, you have all your life to live; leave your
Grief behind, but you want to be as Mother
Was, like the coloured picture in your mind.

The charge nurse closes
the door behind Yiska.
Can I go home? Not yet.
When? When you are

well enough. I am well
enough. We think not.
Who are we? The nurses
and the doctors and I,

think you are not well
enough. But I feel well
enough. You are on the
inside looking out, we

are on the outside of
you looking in. So? We
see things from a much
different angle. But I feel

well. Feelings can betray.
But I feel well. You think
you are well. I am. We think
not. But what do you know?

We are professionals. But
I know what I feel inside.
The charge nurse taps his
pen on the desk, Yiska coldly

stares at him. You tried to
cut your wrists. Tried yes,
but I stopped. Not soon
enough. I am here aren’t I?

The fact you decided to
cut your wrists says you
are unwell. It was how I
felt then. Feelings again.

It was a dark time. Wait
until you are better when
the dark days have gone.
You mean ECT? It helps.

Not me. Some it does.
Not me though. We saw
Improvement, we think.
You think? We professionals.

I get headaches. Side effect.
I feel sick afterwards. More
side effect. Yiska screws
her hands in her lap. The

charge nurse stares at her.
You mix well with Baruch.
He’s kind. He’s a patient.
He is unwell like you. I like

him. He has his problems.
Don’t we all? He will not
help you. You don’t help
me. He will not. I like him.

So we are informed. You
spy? We watch. Spy. We
need to watch all of our
patients. I want to go.

When you are well. Now
I want to leave here.
The hospital? Yes. No.
The room then. Here.

Yes. Ok. Yiska gets up
from the chair. The
charge nurse sits there
watching her. She draws

her nightgown tightly
about her as she leaves
the room. We are still
watching you and Baruch.

Yiska says nothing. The
door closes. She sighs.
The charge nurse folds
his fingers over his large

paunch and stares at the
door and folds away his
captured image of her
naked as he has before.

I guess my grief
is like an open wound.
It seems never
to heal over,

my son,
seeping all
over my soul
with its hurt and pain,

as if all
was happening
over again.
Five days forever branded

in my mind and heart:
Thursday to Monday,
haunts and repeats
the images and events

and the ward
and the waiting
and you
-you so patient,

-so stoic-
I wondering
if this circus of care
will lead anywhere.

Your final breath,
then death,
and an ever repeating
Monday of the same

soaks in
my heart and mind.
How are things,
on that side

of the curtain?
Do you visit
when you can?
I guess you do

-you my stoic son,
being there,
watching, seeking
to make me

hear or see,
that you are fine
and all is
as it's seems

must be.
An open wound
my grief,
the ache seeps

in soul's span,
you my son,
my stoic man.

Anne was sitting along
the avenue of trees
in her wheelchair

the other kids
were on the lawn
playing on the slide
or swings or sitting
on chairs around
white tables

I approached her
keeping to the gravel path
studying her one leg
emerging from her blue dress
her dark hair
tied back tight

where have you been Kid?
she asked

been helping Sister Bridget
with the breakfast things
I said

come here Kid
she said

I stood next
to her wheelchair
do you want me to push
you along the beach?
I asked

later maybe
she said

I looked back
at the nursing home

hey Kid
have you ever seen
a *****?

I looked back at her
no don't think so
I said
is it a fruit?
sounds like a fruit

she smiled
no not a fruit

is it some kind
of animal?
I asked
looking to where
her stump's outline
showed on her dress

she looked at me
her eyes searching me
no not an animal
she said

I looked at her
brown sandal
her toes showing
on the one foot

I can show you one
if you like
Anne said

have you one to show?

she looked at me
sure I have
maybe later
she said
I 'll show you

I nodded wondering
what this thing could be

how about the beach now Kid?
she asked

ok
I said
and began to push
her wheelchair
out the back gate
looking at her black hair
tied in a bun
at the back

is it an ornament
of some kind?
I asked

wait and see Kid
she said
don't worry
your 11 year old head

I pushed her
along the path
by the beach
the sea was far out
the sky a soft blue

don't worry Kid
she said
let me
a 12 year old girl
show you.

Miss Pinkie
had him spread out

upon her bed
an object

to ******
and adore

his clothes folded
neatly on a chair

hers cast here
and there

upon the floor
there’s an art

to seduction
she said

moving in
upon him

her tongue
about to lick

his pecker
he laying there

taking in
the tinted colour

of her greying hair
her eyes

opals of blue
not white

outside the window
the approaching night

and she
came down on him

and was silent
of words

but licked
and ******

and he moved
as the motion

moved him
his pecker saluting

and he noticed
how her earrings

dangled
as she downed

upon him
and up again

for breath
oh

he thought
but saying nothing

what a way to go
what a pleasant death.

She remembers how he
Would watch her sleep
His eyes running over her
From toes to the top of her
Head and she pretending
To be asleep taking control
Of her breathing being the
Actress putting on a show
Keeping her limbs just so
And now and then to move
Them as she would in sleep
No doubt move a little shift
About and she recalls how
Once he touched her and
She had to keep utterly
Frozen her limbs stiff trying
To keep him out of her inner
Being and that touch he gave
Lingered over her thigh and
Then moved along it softly
As if he wanted to wake her
Gently not wake her in a start
Not to get all wound up and
Frightened and that time he
Nearly caught her out nearly
Broke up the acting put her
On the spot but she managed
To keep control of her nerves
And limbs and opened her
Mouth just so as to utter
Nonsense words sleep induced
Ramble and he took no notice
And she caught sight of him
Through a slit of her eyelids him
Standing there that stupid look
On his face his eyes wide and
The whites almost drowning
The dark pupils and now knowing
He was out of the room she can
Open her eyes and breathe out
And sniff the air and sense he’d
Been standing there the smell
Of his cigarette breath and his
Lack of personal hygiene and
She moves her limbs and her
Jaw and wiggles her nose and
Toes preparing herself for when
He comes back and she resumes
The show not wanting *** with
Him but not wanting him to know.

Miriam stands
by the camel

an Arab stands nearby
unimpressed
he holds a rope
tied to the camel

she smiles at me
with my camera

her red bikini
showing more legs
and arms
than the Arab guy
feels comfortable with

I aim
to get her central
her explosion
of red hair
matching that
of the bikini

she fiddles
with her shoulder strap

I wait
eyeing her
through the viewer
focusing
on her *******
as the centrepiece
everything else
to match around

avoiding to get
the Arab in the picture
but it's hard
as he seems to move
closer to her
as I aim once more
he says something
in Arabic
nods to her

I shrug my shoulders

she smiles at him

he moves in closer
his head leaning
to one side
as if someone
has broken his neck

she adjusts the bra
of the bikini
gets it comfortable

I look away from her
hold the camera
by my chest

when you're ready
I say

she does a twirl
in the sand
and back again
facing me

the sands hot
she says
burning my feet

well wear your slip-ons
I say

she goes to her bag
by the camel's back
and takes out
her slip-ons
and puts them on
the Arab watches her
with a dull eyed stare

she comes to the spot
on the sand
where she had been standing
and poses again

the camel seems bored
and looks
at the Arab
then at Miriam
then out to sea

I focus on her again
through the viewer
of the camera
she pouts her lips
puts her hands
on her hips  

I put the camera
by my chest

need to focus
no silly faces
or whorish gestures
I say

another Arab
a companion
to the other
passes by
gawking at Miriam
then stands by
the other Arab
then they both
look towards me

hope these to guys
don't want paying
she says

they usually do
I say
now settle
and pose

she poses her face
a weak smile
her eyes gazing
straight at me

where shall I put
my hands?
she asks

that's what you asked
last night
I say

she giggles
and stands
on one leg
the other trying
to balance her

pose now
I say

she puts both feet
on the sand
and becomes still
her hands in front
of her groin
as if she were praying

the Arab guys
were jabbering away
God knows what
they were saying.