Just because Mother told
Father he looked like some
New York tourist, with his

Loud shirt and hanging camera,
He hit her once or twice, you
Couldn’t tell, just remember

The yell, the cry and flurry of
Fists. Mother looked a wreck
After that, her eyes gazed out

On a different world like some
Columbus on dangerous seas.
You **** with me woman,

You’re going to regret it,
Father said, his bass voice
Flowing around the room like

A large bell, his knuckles
Speckled in bright blood.
Mother’s spirit was black

And blue, but he never once
Touched you, not even a raised
Hand; just his words and stare

Kept you out of there. You can
See her now, cowering when he
Came in, standing stooped over

The sink and saying softly, Mary
Lou, don’t say nothing when
Your daddy comes in just let him

Settle in to his chair just let him
Be calm and unwind, don’t bring
Him troubles or worries, just let

Him be there. You watched as she
Shook when his key hit the lock,
The young woman she’d been aged

With each hard look and knock.
You sit now and see her in the
Crazy house, wandering the ward,

Gibbering to the walls. You can
Still recall your father sitting in
His chair, his eyes in some lifeless

Stare, with the carving knife Mother
Had ****** into him, well rooted
There and in the background on

The radio some Country and Western
Singer was singing deep and slow.

Fay was on the bus
I was on
we both got off
at the cinema

in New Kent Road
how was school today?
I asked
as we walked along

to the Zebra crossing
passing the fish shop
the hairdressers
O you know

how school is
she said
some days
you don't mind it

some days
you hate it
today I hated it
why was that?

I asked
we stood
on the edge
of the pavement

at the crossing
Sister Agnes poked me
in the back
with her

steel hard finger
because I had forgotten
the capital of Peru
Fay said

as if it mattered
as if the Peruvian people
would lose
any sleep over that

we crossed the road
to Meadow Row
it's all part
of the brain-washing process

I said
I try to empty
my brain of it
as soon as I can

after school
she laughed
and put her fingers
to her mouth

I shouldn't laugh
my daddy says
laughter is how
the Devil gets in

and those
who make people laugh
are the Devil's helpers
we walked down

Meadow Row
pass
the bombed out houses
on the left

the empty windows
the boarded up
doorways
I guess your old man

is a bit of a sourpuss
I said
sourpuss?
she said frowning

I liked it
when she frowned
her blonde eyebrows
seemed to meet

in the middle
and the lines appeared
on her forehead
a grouch

I said
she laughed again
stop it
I shouldn't laugh

at least not
at my daddy's expense
it won’t cost him
nothing

I said
I joke for free
we passed
the public house

there was a piano playing
and some woman
was singing
Fay looked at me seriously

I mustn't be seen
beyond here
with you
Daddy says

you are a bad influence
Fay said
am I?
Daddy says you are

she said
do you think I am?
I asked
no I don't

she said
that's ok then
I said
we paused

by the fresh fish shop
and looked
at each other
don't forget

to find out
the capital of Peru
I said
I know now

she said
Sister Agnes poked
Lima into my back
that's one way

to impress knowledge
on a kid
I said
she rubbed

her shoulder
yes
I shall call this
my Lima shoulder

she said smiling
see you around
I said
(although

she only lived
in the flat upstairs)
and she leaned in
and kissed my cheek

and went off ahead
over Rockingham Street
up towards the flat
I touched

my 12 year old cheek
maybe
I said
I’ll not wash

that bit
for a whole week.

You never expected
your mother to die
although the hospital
hinted at such

all lost
in their
language trap
all in all

it was a double blow
as dementia took her
piece by piece
years ago

then the final punch
the knock out blow
remembering
someone saying

that’s how
some loved ones
tend to go
and the relationship

between mother and child
is never simple
travelling as it does
through high hills

and valleys sometimes
dark and often deep
and remembering
all that

the need to weep
you reflect on all that
the final sight
of your mother

in that bed
the closed eyes
the small smile
remain in your head

and you know
after all such
you loved her overmuch
and always will

indeed
you love her still.

Isis had let the girl into
her small private room

at the school, she should
have said no, but she was

of two minds, and then
one, and then she just let

her in, and turned to the
window, not wanting to

face the girl, and let her
look break through to her

heart, and she had heard
the girl whisper, I love you,  

so soft it seemed as if breathed,
as if a small knife had entered

under her ribs and inched
towards her heart, and she

had not turned around, and
had just replied equally softly,

I know, and then a few moments
Later, I love you too, and then

there was silence, and she
sensed the girl put her arms

around her waist, but she had
done nothing, just stood there,

looking out on the school grounds
at the playing field, and the girl

had released her, and Isis had
uttered, Best go now Jodie, and

she heard only quiet footsteps
and the door closing with a dull

thud, and the room seemed
suddenly empty, as if a world had

begun to die and another been
born, and over the playing field

a warm sun opened up like a
young god to a bright new dawn.

Lizbeth wants
more to love

than the once
a day glimpse

or quick meet
on the field

with her love
Benedict

during their
lunch recess

with hardly
time to talk

or to kiss
while prefect's

not watching
she wants to

be able
to make love

(at least try
what she'd read

in that book
the big girl

had shown her
and loaned her)

she wants now
to feel him

enter her
(as the book

had described)
to be one

in body
and in heart

to sense his
lips on hers

and other
sensitive

secret parts
to feel him

kiss her bits
inner thighs

lids of eyes
her small ****

but in class
during maths

bored to tears
she thinks on

Benedict
whose warm lips

had met hers
in the gym

secretly
during lunch

he shyly
not tonguing

just kissing
holding her

close to him
she sensing

his kisses
wanted more

making love
on the floor

but the bell
rang its chime

no more time
just the caught

memory
of what they

did and not
leaving her
bored and hot.

Sophie Syncope
suffocated

her sixth child,
placed the pink pillow

over the small head,
held it there, against

the struggling for breath,
until still, until dead.

Sophie waited, listened,
held her breath,

watched for movement.
None came; she removed

the pillow, stood holding
it by her side. The sixth

child lay closed eyed,
opened mouthed, small

hands in tight fists.
Sophie dropped pillow,

put child’s hands crossed
one over the other. Dead child,

crucified mother. Pushed
mouth closed, moved head

upright, steadied. She placed
her palms on the child’s cheeks,

felt smooth skin, knew
the stilled cancer within.

Cut short
the suffering,

snuffed out
the cancer’s route,

released her child’s spirit
to boot.

I miss your humour,
the look you gave,
that twinkle in the eye.

I miss the smile,
mischievous,
but harmless,
healing wounds.

Your flat was emptied
and some other
lives there now;
I avoid the place now,
haunts me somehow.

I miss you coming in
for lunch and dinner,
your quiet presence,
your hungry bear look,
that soft foot tread
looking for food,
but most of all
I miss your wit,
your one liners,
that gentle humour
now gone,
but not forgotten;
aching heart,
as if wounded
and dumb rotten.  

Feel I ought not
to have left you
in that ward,
I feel I ought
to have stayed,
still haunts me,
I'm afraid.
If you come
in the spirit sense,
be near, talk,
even if I cannot hear.

I miss you son,
miss you
not being here.

Bill had a lot to
Thank America
For (he didn’t think

So, that pile of ash,
That heap of broken
Promises, arms and

Hands of lethal touch,)
But he never said
As much. The good old

American Way,
His father hammered
Into him by words

And speech, not by touch
Of hand as other
Fathers may. Bill’d

Seen the ***** dark
Undergarments of
The American

Way, the hushed secret
Dealings, the dark deeds,
The unofficial

Killings, the *****
Tricks or silencing
Of witnesses of

The alternative
View; the communists,
Liberals of too

Soft a heart, those who
Poked their noses in
Too deep into the

Mire came under
Fire, disappeared
Or were loss or killed

In those accidents
Conveniently
Arranged, or so their

Close relatives feared.
Bill knew all this; smelt
***** from a great height;

The double talk and
Values; grim men in
Dark suits. The money

That could buy, silence
And distance. Bill loved
The American

Queer guys, the ones he
Could hold, kiss and ****
And softly pillow

Talk until the small
Hours sipping and
Smoking. Mother used

To tuck him up in
Bed and kiss his brow
And whisper soft words.

Both his parents were
Gone now, into the
Big sleep, where God or

The deep silence, their
U.S. souls will keep.

She stands there
at the sink

I can see
the outlines
of her bra
through her blouse
at the back

Milka's mum
is talking
about the
state of
Milka's room

complaining
never seen
such a mess

I sip tea
she's poured me

if I left
my bedroom
in that state
my mother
would have slapped
my  backside

I nibble
a Rich Tea
biscuit that
Milka's mum
offers me

I forgot
Milka says
I'll do it
after this
washing up

never seen
such a room
her mother
says again

I can see
the outline
through her skirt
of *******
(Milka's not
her mother's)
the skirt's tight
about her

I dunk in
the Rich Tea
and nibble
the soft mess

just as well
Benedict's
not seen it

(I had though
the bedroom
the small bed
untidy
littered floor)

her mum says
giving me
her soft eyes
and a smile

I try not
to red blush
or let her
see that I'd
been in the room
and had ***

I study
the large broach
she's wearing

lovely broach
I utter

Milka's dad
gave it me
her mum says

Milka turns
and her eyes
look at me
and she knows
what I know
as her face
is blushing
a bright red
about the ***
on her bed.

It's Paris
Miriam
says to me

looking out
the window
of the coach

her perfume
tending to
overwhelm

my senses
beside her
her finger

pointing
at the sights
as we pass

the Eiffel
Tower thing
lit up loud

isn't it
wonderful?
she exclaims

just to think
of artists
who once lived

and worked here
Picasso
and Van Gogh

and writers
like Miller
Hemingway

Marcel Proust
she pauses
looks at me

and who else?
what perfume
do you use?

I ask her
just some stuff
of my Mum's

she gave me
she answers
well not quite

gave to me
I kind of
borrowed it

the other day
while Mum was
out shopping

I study
her profile
her snub nose

rosy cheeks
rose bud lips
the slim neck

small tight ****
she has tons
of perfume

she wouldn't
miss any
Miriam

rattles on
is it good?
enticing

I tell her
she smiles wide
looks at me

parts her lips
moves her tongue
over them

Ezra Pound
was here too
I tell her

the poet?
she asks me
that's the guy

wasn't he
a fascist?
I guess so

but he wrote
The Cantos
her lips close

she turns round
Paris’s so
romantic

she utters
I lean close
breath her in

the perfume
inviting me
to drink in.

Lizbeth sits
in the bath
sponges down

and under
her thin arms
over small

but full *******
soapy suds
hot water

pretending
Benedict
is washing

between thighs
(here she sighs)
wiggles her

two big toes
she wonders
if he would

do such things
she doubts it
not the type

but she's tried
to get him
to have ***

even once
in her room
but mother

came back too
soon and spoilt
her chances

and that time
in his room
with his tank

of old bones
skeletons
and bird's eggs

and model
Spitfire
hanging down

but no ***
frustrated
she sponges

along thighs
imagining
it is he

rubbing her
his warm lips
planting hot

wet kisses
on the back
of her hand

touch on touch
O too much
if was such.

I found your old
wrist watch
amongst your things;
strap worn, unstitched,

the face of the watch
stopped at a given time,
metal touched with grime.
Don't know when

you wore it last,
but I guess your being
still tingles along the vibes,
despite the years gone by.

I wonder if you
chopped up your day
by it, wonder what hours
you set aside for play,

what for work or sleep?
You're dead now, so that
information will have to keep,
the hours spent, the moments

slipped by in the blink
of a human eye, the ticking
watch ticking off
the time allotted you,

your span set out,
the final year
mapped out maybe,
for none to know or see.

I hold your watch,
allow the sense of you
to come through
the metal workings,

silver cast, leather strap;
the sense of you
pulsing as I wear it
briefly on my wrist;  

the back of the watch
and my skin touching
as if kissed. I will put
the wrist watch away,

in some drawer, for
another, some day,
but it is you, my son,
that is wanted, that’s missed.

Jane sat on her haunches
and opened her hands
to show the butterfly

she had just captured
from a nearby flower
and said the name of it

but you were studying
her sitting there
the way she opened her hands

like some flower
in the morning light
spreading its petals

and her eyes bright
and deep
set on the wings

of the butterfly
and its opening
and closing of wings

and she smiled
and she said something else
but the words escaped you

not the tone or softness
of her voice
but the words

the structure
and meaning of them
and you looked

at her legs
spread downward
beneath

the summery dress
of red and orange
and the sun making

her warm
and you sitting there
wanting to lean forward

and touch her hands
maybe to stroke
the butterfly

but
no
she said

the wings are so delicate
they may damage
just look and see

and she moved her hands
closer to you
and you smelt her scent

the perfume
she said her mother
gave her

and you breathed it in
as you leaned forward
and the butterfly took off

and she watched it go  
and waved it goodbye
and then turned

and looked at you
and you felt a warm passion
flow through you

as she gazed
into your eyes
and spoke

but the words
slipped away
like the butterfly

but the perfume
was still there
and her hands closed

and she placed them
over yours
as you sat opposite

and the sun warmed
and blessed both
your heads

and the butterfly
disappeared over
the high hedge

and away
and her words
were lost to you

that moment
of that summery day.

The young guy turns
towards Bill
in the single bed;
his blue eyes
are as innocent
as cheese.

I thought you
were a gonna
back at that bar,
the young guy says.

Bill sighs, moves up
in the bed, getting
the young guy
into focus.

But you took them out
before I could blink,
the young guy adds.

One has to weigh out
the ends and means,
Bill says.

But you're an old guy,
I thought that was it.

Bill reaches
for a cigarette
from the bedside table
and opens it
and takes out one
and offers,
but the young guy
shakes his head,
so Bill lights up
and puffs away.  

You **** good.

The youth blushes,
looks at Bill,
then away
at the room.

Small, Spartan,
few bits of furniture,
few belongings.

You live here?

Now and then.

Where'd you live mostly?

Out of a suitcase.

The young guy
stares at Bill.

What was your job?

Government business.

C.I.A or FBI?

Can't say
or if I did
I’d have to **** you.

The young guy
begins to smile,
but Bill doesn't,
the youngster
stops smiling.

Something like that,
though?

Something like that.

The  youth
nods his head.

Did you meet
any one famous?

Bill exhales
and stares at the kid.  

I knew the Kennedys,
met Saddam and Gaddafi
and other creeps like that.

The youth opens
his eyes wide.

Really knew them?

Bill nods, looks away.

I knew them;
now they're all dead.

Who killed JFK?

Bill smiles;
can't tell you,
but you'll
find out one day.

Did you?

Bill shook his head;
no I was just
a young novice then;
I met Jack K
in a passage way
in the Big House,
back in 1962;
he tapped my shoulder,
had a nice smile,
liked the dames.

The kid looks
at Bill deeply.

Were you sad
when JFK died?  

I don't get sad
about things,
I survive
and move on;
now no more questions,
get me a coffee
and then
we can get back
to bed work again.

The young guy
nods his head,
gets up and goes
to the small kitchen
and makes two coffees;
on a wall,
pinned by a single pin
is a picture
of a blonde girl
and underneath
is scrawled in red ink:
innocent or guilty:
what do you think?

And Reynard said
why is that ****
always looking out
for you
lunch breaks?

we were going out
after lunch
in the school

the sun was out
the field packed
with kids
mostly in groups
girls sitting
on the grass

boys playing
a ball game
or tag games
one or two
chatting up
the older girls

I guess
she likes me
I said

I'm off
to kick ball
you coming?
he said

no I’ll see
what she wants
and meet after
I said

Yiska was
by the fence
arms folded
staring at me

thought you
weren't coming
she said
been waiting ages

had lunch
and got talking
with my friend
I said

she raised her brows
what's he like?
she asked
nodding towards
Reynard's
departing back

he's ok
he's funny
I said

we walked up
the field
looks moody
she said

who?

him

no he's ok

she yakked
about her mother
and her mother's
bad moods
and how she'd
rowed with her
before school

what about?
I asked

don't ask

I already have

she sighed
usual stuff
my untidy room
my having
my record player
too loud
playing Elvis
instead of her
classical stuff

we reached
the far end
of the field
and looked back
towards school

I dreamed of you
last night
I said

did you?

no
you wouldn't
let me

she giggled
no really?

I nodded

what did we do?
did we kiss
and such?

no not
over much

(I hadn't dreamed
of her at all
I dreamed
of Hayley Mills
and some
desert island
and fish cooking
over an open fire)

what then?
she said

I woke up
and you
had gone

she frowned
and took my hand
and walked back
towards school

her warm hand
in mine
her pulse
tickling me
as we walked

and then
she spoilt it all
and talked.

I saw Enid’s old man
leave the flats

morning grey
chill
sky
cannon smoke colour

he walked down the *****
I gave an
up you finger sign
once he'd gone

and I went upstairs
to Enid’s flat
and knocked
at the door

the door opened
a narrow slit
Enid's mother
peaked at me
through the gap

what do you want?
she asked

can I borrow sugar
for my mum?
I said

she hesitated
gazed at me

guess so
wait there

and she went
and closed the door

I gazed over
the balcony
the milkman's horse
was eating
from a nosebag

some kids were playing ball
by the pram sheds

the door opened
and Enid showed
with a bag of sugar

how much you need?
Enid asked

I gazed at her thin frame
her hand shaking
a slight bruise
over her right eye

I saw your old man go
I said

she looked at me
with wide eyes

had a go at you I guess

she said nothing
offered me
the bag of sugar

aren't you cold
standing there
in that white nightie?
I asked

a bit

can I come in?

she shook her head
best not
she said
Mum's not up to visitors

OK
I said

I took the bag of sugar
and she stared at me

see you at school
I said

she nodded
and closed the door

I walked downstairs
no more bruises
I mused
than I'd seen before.

You were with Janice
in Jail Park

two kids
looking for kicks

and Janice said
Can you push me

on the swings?
and you said

Sure if you like
and got behind her

as she sat on the swing
her hands holding

the small steel rings
that held the wooden seat

of the swing in place
her legs kicking outward

like some young bird
about to take flight

for the first time
and you heaved

the seat of the swing forwards
you then let it go

and off she went
upwards and downwards

her cry of exhilaration
filled your ears

and you pushed her
more higher and higher

to her cries of
Higher and higher

then you stood back
and walked around

the front of her
as she rose up

her legs pushing
into the sky

her black shoes
touching the cloud’s skin

and you called out to her
Don’t let go

or you’ll fall
and she gripped

the small steel rings tighter
with her whitening hands

and her eyes
were wide

and her mouth opened
in a small O

and as her body
went by you

you pushed her once more
your hands pushing against

her summer dress
covered ****

and you sensed
the warmness of her

and the air
and her flying

like some young bird
way up there.

If you have my heart,
Then bruise it not.
Rather if it please,
Hold to your breast

And sense its gentle pulse
Or if pleases more,
Against your cheek,
And feel the sad echo

Vibrate along the jaw.
Do not bruise my heart,
But if pleases place to your lips
And kiss with love or wild desire,

Or if pleases more,
Hold in your hands and move around
With curious gaze as if a gem or object rare.
Bruise not my heart,

But let it beat against your own
Until its gentle pulse and yours
Become as one.

Yiska slides
a knife blade
across her

soft pink palm
a thin line
of blood comes

seeping out
she watches
the blood seeps

down her arm
I watch her
and the knife

but am too
drugged up to
be alarmed

whose's the knife?
I ask her
thin red lines

move downward
I stole it
from the tray

supper time
while the nurse
was busy

with the pills
she tells me
want the knife?

not just now
too drugged up
I tell her

blood drips down
to the floor
pitter pat

Yiska no
a nurse calls
from the door

of the room
put it down
Yiska stares

at the nurse
then at me
up to you

I mutter
the nurse stares
anxiously

another nurse
comes along
don't Yiska

the nurse says
place down please
Yiska sighs

long and deep
then hands me
the handle

of the knife
I give it
to the nurse

the fat nurse
takes Yiska
by the arm

to a room
at the side
marked in red

MEDICAL
they go in
the door shuts

I stand there
while the nurse
the thin one

cleans the floor
of the blood
I study

the knife blade
Yiska's blood
settled there

best be off
the nurse says
how'd she get

the **** knife?
I am dumb
with the words

pack them off
in my head
as I walk

to gaze out
the window
at the fields

and tall trees
white with snow.

Mrs O’Brien stood
at the office hatch
of the factory
as Naaman approached

he stood there
gazing at her
how long
were you on that job?

she asked
about 6 inches
he said
looking at her

standing there
with dyed brown hair
and glasses
making her eyes

look larger
seriously I mean
in time how long?
she said

about 2 hours
he replied
about?
she said

I need accurate time
I am doing a time
and motion study
he looked at her

non plus
1 hour and 45 minutes
and 45 seconds
he said

trying to see himself
in the glass
of her spectacles
trying to gauge

how old she was
seeing the crowfeet
at the corner
of her eyes

she sighed
accurately?
yes
he said

she looked at him
as if he were her son
and had spoken
out of turn

any problems
Mrs O'Brien?
the manager asked
no Mr Nede

she said
giving Naaman the eye
just a bit of confusion
with Naaman here

about timing
she said
it was how long
Naaman?

Naaman took out
a piece of paper
from the pocket
of his jeans

and handed it to her
she read it
and scribbled it down
in a notebook

thank you Naaman
she said
giving the look
of a mother at a child

who had been punished
anything at any time
Naaman said
winking an eye

she looked at him frowning
as if a small window
had opened in her mind
and let in light

she walked away
from the hatch
carrying the notebook
and Naaman watched her

studying her
swaying behind
the patterned skirt
the dark brown stockings

the high heeled shoes
she sat at her desk
and saw him
still there at the hatch

anything else Naaman?
she asked
if you like
he said quietly

what is it
I can do for you?
pleasure
he said

and walked off
along the factory floor
between noisy machines
and the other workers

wondering how well
she'd pleasure
if at all or
even if he'd

want to
and switched on
his machine again
with more work to do.

It was mid morning
and the sun was warm
and Anne was in
her wheelchair
her stump visible
at the hem
of her red shirt

what's it do for you?
she asked me

what?

this sunshine
and warmth?

not much
I said

it should
it should make you
want to jump up
and dance around
shouting out
to the sun god
she said

you couldn't dance
with your one leg
I said

up you Kid
she said
glaring at me
up you as far
as it will go

well you couldn't
could you
I said
I mean
I would help you
if you wanted to
get up and dance
but on your own
you'd have a job

she sighed
if I want to
****** get up
and dance I will
she said

she heaved herself
out of the chair
and stood on
her one leg
and began to
hop about

until she fell over
and lay
on her back
staring
at the sky

how was that
for a fecking
dance then?
she said

a nursing nun
came walking
quickly over to us

get me up Kid
before the penguin
gets here

I helped her up
the best I could
but she
was heavier than I
and the nun reached us
just as Anne
was hauling
herself up
by holding
onto my body

what were you doing?
the nun asked

dancing
what's it look like?
Anne said

the nun helped
Anne back
into her wheelchair
and stood there
gazing at her

you're so rude Anne
the nun said
do you know
how many
complaints
there have been
about you?

who's counting
Anne said

it was my fault
I said
I asked her
to show me
how she danced

Anne looked
at me

the nun raised
an eyebrow
well you
should know better
Benedict
the nun said
then she walked off

you didn’t have
to lie for me
Anne said
but thanks
anyway Kid

she pulled her skirt
over her stump
and I
was pleased
by what I did.

So long sucker
she called out
but the guy had

gone long before
her words would
have reached him

but still she had
to try each punter
who came by and

she hoped would
hire her for the
quickie which kept

her fed and watered
and the roof over
her head and she

was reminded of
that young guy she
once stopped in the

city by the bridge
and asked Have you
got the time kid?

and the kid looked
at his watch and said
It’s quarter past two

and looked at her so
innocently his hand
on his coat sleeve

the watch on his
wrist so cheap a
thing bought from

some street schmuck
and all she asked
was a simple question

in a roundabout way
do you want to ****?

She crosses her legs,
one leg over the other,
dividing the dressing gown,
her foot dangling,
the pink slipper,
half hanging there.

The ward light
has no shade,
the light is naked
and bare and bright.

She gazes
at her reflection
in the window pane;
outside the darkness
of late evening.

I sit beside her;
we are both
in the frame
of the window pane.

I heard of your
latest drama,
she says,
had the nurses
rushing around
like headless hens.  

You know
how it gets you.

There's always
a different door,
the quack told me.

What's he know,
except what he's ******
from books?

These
are my dumb medals.

She shows me
her scars;
they are like bracelets
around her wrists
and along her arm.

Where'd you get
the cord?
she asks.

Framer had one
on his dressing gown;
they never
checked him.

Heads will roll.

Almost did it,
I say,
looking at the guy
looking at me.

So I thought
when I sliced
into my flesh
last time;
matter of time
I told the quack;
he wasn’t impressed.

I take her hand
and run a finger
along the scars.

Smooth, soft,
pinkie-white,
whiter than the rest.

She uncrosses her legs,
then crosses them again,
different leg over,
foot dangling,
slipper stained by blood
hanging half off.

Who are they?
Yiska asks
pointing to
the two reflected images
gazing back at us,
male and female.

Poor sods,
like Dante's souls
in the Second Circle,
I say.

She turns her head;
the female image
before us
turns away.

It was Friday
a boring morning
of lessons
geography and maths
and some work
on some king
who had lots of wives
and beheaded a few

after lunch
in the spare classroom
assigned as the sandwich room
I went out onto the field
taking in the sunshine
the blue sky
and others about
on the green grass

boys kicking a ball about
girls sitting in groups
giggling or talking
a few in pairs walking along
a boy here and there
with a girl holding hands
(romance stuff)

some girls with skip ropes
or a ball throwing
between each

I saw Yiska
sitting on the grass
with two other girls
in deep conversation
she stood up
when she saw me
and came over

I have read some
of that book
you gave me
she said
don't understand
some of it

we walked away
from the other girls
they watched us
talking no doubt
what don't you understand?
I asked

copulation
she said
what does that mean?

what do you think it means?

she looked back
at the girls
who were looking our way
and talking

don't know
she said
never heard
the word before

it means
having ****** *******
I said quietly

*******?
she said
I understand ******
but *******
seems too scientific

boys shouted
from across the field
someone had scored a goal
between two jackets
on the grass

a relationship
in a ****** way
I said

she stopped
and gazed at me

the book has some pictures
but it's confusing
she said

have you shown
your parents?
I asked

God no
she said
you want to get me
whacked?

just joking
I said

we walked on again
where did you get the book?
she asked

I found it in a drawer
in an old sideboard
at home
I said
it's quite old
think it was my gran's

the words seem hard
to understand
she said
the pictures
in brown and white

yes I noticed
the one about the baby
in the woman's womb
I said

but what
do you have to do?
she asked
to have a baby?

it says
I said

does it?
she asked

yes many times
in different ways
I replied

she sighed
******* is that it?

I nodded
she looked puzzled

so not just kissing?

no not just that

or touching?
she said

not just touching

we came to the fence
and looked
at the passing traffic

that girl in class said
that if you kiss too much
you get pregnant
Yiska said

no not that
I said
where's the book now?

in the cabinet by my bed
she said

will your mother
see it there?

hope not

does she look
through your stuff?

not as far as I know
Yiska said

she leaned in
and kissed me
warm lips on warm lips
her hands around my neck

I put my hands
around her waist
off across the playing field
a bell tolled
from the school

we pulled apart
and walked back
towards school
an odd beating
within
my fourteen year
old heart.

Abela waits for me
at a table outside
some cafe in town

she's smoking
and looking at the book
she'd brought

a waitress had taken her order
of coffee and pancakes  

a guy a few tables a way
gives her the eye
he sits one leg
crossed over the other
he's confident of his looks
and the bright shirt he's wearing
he smokes a French cigarette
even though he's not in France
he studies her figure
drinks in her legs
coming down
from her short skirt
the feet in her sandals

she senses him looking
(how do you dames do that?)
she looks at him
over the pages
of her open book

he smiles
moves his head to one side
as if to suggest
she go sit next to him

she lowers her eyes
to the page
tries to take in the words
but she's lost it now
and her mind
has been invaded by him
she's beginning to wonder
where I've got to
and stares at the page
of her book
(****** book anyway)

the guy's smile
seems frozen to his face
his eyes feed on her
every visible part of her

I see Abela sitting
at the table
outside the cafe

I have managed to shower
myself sober to a degree
but a headache lingers
at the corner of my mind
like an actor
waiting to come on stage
when the times right

I take a seat opposite her
I've arrived
I say

at last
thought you'd drowned yourself

you don't sound relived
that I'm here
maybe I should
have drowned
and got rid
of the lingering headache
that way

you're not the headache
that guy over there is
keeps gaping at me

how do you know
he's gaping at you?

I've looked

so you were gaping at him?

no I just sensed
he was ******* me
with his eyes

how far did he get?

it's not funny
he's intimidating me

I look behind me
at the guy
and give him
my best Clint Eastwood stare

he looks away
and waves to a waitress
I look back at Abela

did you order for me?

no wasn't sure
if you were up
to drinking
she says
from behind her book

I wave a hand to a waiter
standing by the door
of the cafe
he comes over
and I order
coke and bread roll and jam
and he nods and goes off

I see the guy behind me
chatting up the waitress
and making her laugh

I turn and look at Abela
how's the book?

she lowers it
give the guy a stare
and says
****** book
but it's better than looking
at an empty chair

well I'm here now
so we can talk

what about?

What would you like
to talk about?

last night?

what about last night?

you were making eyes
at that waitress
in the restaurant of the hotel
and being suggestive

to you?

no to her

I pull a face
and light up a cigarette
I bummed then?

yes you did
and I had to help you
to our room

thanks

don't thank me
I had help

who from?

Mr Green helped me

that old buzz?

yes that old buzz
at least he was sober
and civilized

good for him
bet his crabby wife
wasn't pleased

no she wasn't
she looked daggers

doesn't she always?

a waitress brought Abela
her coffee and pancakes
and she put down her book

I waited and watched
giving her
my softer
Clint Eastwood look.

Benny's here!
Milka's mother
calls out
up the stairs

where Milka
is still in bed
thinking of where
she and Benny

could go
to have ***-
her place is out
as her mother

is in all day
and Benny's place
is out
for the same reason-

and although Benny
had said something
about a place
they could go

a bike ride away-
meaning that even
after a good soak
in the bath

she'd not be
smelling as fresh
as a rose-
but as she rises

from bed she's aware
of even that
possibility is out
as splat

blood rises
with her
the dreaded curse
or Aunt Red or Flo

has come
and o ****
she says
and rushes along

the upstairs landing
and into the bathroom
and shutting the door
with a teenage

girl temper
that's all I ****** need
she utters
spittle on her lower lip

turning on the bath taps
putting the bath plug in
and *******
and thinking

of the Saturday-
the only day effectively
she can see Benny
as he at 16

works weekdays
and she at 15
is still at school-
and Sundays

her parent's say
is a family day
and church day
and even if she did

see Benny on Sunday
which she rarely does
there is no place to go
to have ***

and only the cinema
is open and late
in the day
she gets in the bath

once it is at
the right temperature
and sits down
and using her mother's

bath stuff
she lies down
and curses
and washes  

and knows Benny
is downstairs
with her mother
and God knows

what she's saying
about me
Milka says
and now this

the big spoiler
the arrival of Aunt Flo
o ****
she says

washing and cleaning
and imagining she
and Benny
as they did the last time

having *** in her bed
while her mother
was out shopping
and she coming

back early
and they almost
getting caught
and  o Benny

he is a one
and her  mother likes him
and he saying things
and she believing him

and now that
is done for now
just them together
going out-

not too late
her mother will say-
no chance of it happening
and so she lies

back in the water
cursing and swearing
Milka's mother's
angry daughter.

I was 15 years old
and started
my first job.

I visited
my paternal
grandmother
in London
and we sat in
her back garden.

Is that your
new suit?

Yes I bought it out
of my own money.

Looks nice,
makes you look
like a gentleman,
she said.

Have you seen
your father
in recent years?

No not in years.

You're not like him
at all, thank God.

I'd not seen
my old man
for a few years
and that was ok.

How's your mother?

She's ok.

How's the feller
she's got now?

He 's good.
Good role model,
I said.

That's good.
Your father
was a schmuck.

Your grandfather
goes out
in the garden
when he
comes around.

I talk to him,
I’m his mother.
Mothers do that
kind of thing.

How's Grandfather?
I asked.

He's out,
gone to the shops,
needs to get out,
he hates retirement.

He taught me
how to draw,
I said.

He's good at that,
she said.

How are you?
I asked her.

She smiled,
her semi-blind
eyes twinkled.

I'm fine,
made of tough stuff,
she said.

I gazed at her,
her white hair
permed,
her eyes
half-blind,
her small
warm hands
in her lap.

And I remembered
the time
when my mother told me
that Gran chased
some woman
who tried to sell her
clothes pegs
which were dud.

I smiled.
She never saw,
but she listened
and that's what
grandmothers
are for.

She wants to understand
Each word he said each
Intonation to weigh each

Word and take it apart and
Hold it and turn it around
And wonder why he chose

Those words and not others
And pauses taking a long drag
From the cigarette held between

Fingers to look out the window
To see the children still playing
Unaware of the clouds the dark

Descending the broken marriage
Of the parents so soon ending
And why did he choose those

Words? And the way he said it
The timbre of voice and that
Jutting jaw that jabbing finger

The darkness of eyes the ice in
Heart and way of speaking and
As she studies the children out

At play on swing and jump rope
With laughter and smiles and oh
He had said those are mine now

They’ll not stay with you they’ll
Not be pawns in the coming war
And it was all talk talk all jaw jaw

Jaw and she inhales smoke feels
Lungful ease the nose release
The eyes gaze at children now

Innocently at play and the words
He spoke the intonation the voice
The iciness of threats and arguments

And slapping hand slap slap slap
And then she remembers the snap
The ****** of knife from the turning

Worm the faithful long suffering put
Upon beat up knocked down ******
Up put down all too weary loving wife.

I am sitting
on the brick
and concrete
bomb shelter
with Fay;
she is looking
at the coal wharf,
I am sorting
cigarette cards
to swap at school.

Do you know
where Jesus was born?
She asks.

In a stable wasn't it;
laid him in a manger,
I think it says.

She nods.

But in St Matthew
it says the Magi
came to the house.

Who were Magi?

The three Wise Men,
although it doesn't
actually say
how many there were,
it just says they.

I put the cigarette cards
in my jacket pocket
and gaze at her.

What's it matter?
People will believe
what they want to believe.

But the nuns said
it's the truth,
Fay says.  

I like her
pale complexion,
her blue eyes
and her fair hair,
well groomed
by her mother.

When I asked Daddy
he said not
to question the nuns,
but to accept
what they said.

I look at her light
blue flowery dress,
the white ankle socks,
the black shoes.

What do you think?
she asks.

Perhaps he was born
in a stable,
but they moved him
into a house
before the Wise Guys
got there,
I say, not caring
a hoot,
but wanting
to ease her worry.

Do you think so?

Sure,
makes sense to me,
I say, seeing
a coal wagon
leave the coal wharf
drawn by a large horse.

But in pictures
in my Bible
it shows them
entering a stable
with shepherds.

I watch the coal wagon
go along
Rockingham Street
and out of sight
under the railway bridge.

What's the truth?
She asks,
looking at her hands
in her lap.

I don't know,
Sweetie, I reply,
and I couldn't
give a crap.

I could slit the thin knife
along the inside of my arm
get the right artery
and SPLATTER
blood like some
Biblical flood,
Yiska says.

I sit beside her
in the locked
ward's lounge.

It's warm, cosy
and she's toying
with an idea
but no knife thin
or otherwise.

Just her thin
red painted
fingernail
moving down
the inside
of her arm.

I watch intently.

Will she scratch
herself a slit?
I muse.

Her pink nightgown
sans belt
opens up as she
uncrosses her legs.

Glimpse thigh
pass my eye.

Slowly slit it,
she says,
open up like
a red flower.

The red fingernail
makes an indentation,
but no slit.

Her other arm,
bandaged,
has a recent attempt
of slitting-
some guy
from the male ward's
razor blade borrowed-
should have seen it spurt,
she says,
as I gaze
at the bandaged arm,
shot across the room
like a line of red,
*******, the guy said.

Yiska fingernails
a line deep as she can,
pressing down hard.

Slit you ******* nail, slit,
she says.

Through a gap
in her nightgown's fold,
and legs moving
here and there,
I spy a sight of ***** hair.

I look away;
see the emptiness
of her deep eyes,
where a soul
or mind is wounded
and silently cries.

Unforgettable.
The tall girl he saw
Getting on the bus

And who then sat down
Opposite him with
Her short skirt and big

Black sunglasses that
Covered her eyes. That
Was last May. He can

Still picture her now
Today: the short skirt,
The blonde hair, the way

The big sunglasses
Reflected their small
Images of him

Sitting opposite.
She never spoke; just
Stared straight ahead her

Focus on something
Beyond him as far
As he could decide.

Maybe she was just
Avoiding his gaze,
Looking over his

Head or shoulder, or
Perhaps something more
Importance caught her

Gaze or interest.
He’d never know, just
Speculation on

An incident of
The past. But he still
Couldn’t get her out

Of his mind. Sometimes
He thought he saw her
On other buses

On different days,
But it wasn’t, it
Was just some who

Wore sunglasses the
Same or a short skirt
Similar in its

Colour or design.
He regrets now not
Speaking or asking

Her name or potted
Biography in
The short time allowed.

He’s not seen her since
Outside of his mind
Or occasional

Dream, just the false hope
Of seeing her once
More someplace with big

Sunglasses, short skirt,
Blonde hair and her bright
Angel looking face.

This is the pond
she called your lake,
trees still surround,
similar sky,
birds sing,
but she has gone,
cancer ridden,
to an early plot.

This is where you sat
and talked
and laughed,
this green grass,
grows still,
flowers near by,
but she had been taken
death's finger
judged her ripe to die.

This is the sky
beneath which
you lay,
eyes focusing
on clouds move
and shape
and size,
but she is no more,
cancer
caressed her
and it gave
deadly kiss;
it is not sky
or bird or flower,
but she you miss.

This is where
she lay
and kissed
and held your hand
and loved you deep,
but she has died
of cancer's curse,
its deadly touch,
she has gone
and is missed
so much.

Where-
and the place
too familiar,

passageways,
dark, the bed
at the end

of the ward,
and you,
you there,

at the side,
bent over,
Stoic until the end.

Where in the realm of things
does sense
come of this?

I, how to see
sense in this?
The unfolding drama,

the end game,
the drawn out decider.
You-

how soon would
it have come,
my son?

Did you?
And how much?
Was it your hand

on my shoulder
months later
at the Carthusian mass?

The long passage way,
drawn out in dreams
to the same conclusion,

the same end:
What will be the comfort;
who will mend?

Nima holds
in her palm
the capsules
the doctor
prescribed her

from a glass
she slowly
sips water

meant to help
my drug
addiction
she tells me

and does it?
I ask her

does it what?

does it help?

wouldn't know
guess it does

she shows me
her pink palm
capsules gone

when can you
go back home?

when I’m cured
or when they
think I am
she mutters

we sit on
seats outside
the mental
hospital

want a smoke?
she asks me

I’ve my own
smoke your own
I tell her

she lights up
then lights mine

there's two things
that I want
she tells me
have a fix
and have ***

what order?

have a fix
then have ***

uncrossing
her slim legs
she moves up
her short skirt
showing thighs

do you like?

artistic
Renoir like
I reply

she inhales
a lungful
of grey smoke
then exhales
in the air

and gives me
a smile and
****** stare.

Kennedy’s dead, Warne said.
Cole couldn’t comprehend.
The President? Jack you mean?

Things seemed simple then.
Now he knew the dark truth
Of how things fell into place.

Warne had lied about the facts,
Distorted matters; brought in
The Oswald myth and kept it

Going. Cole sips his *****
Looks across the city, wonders
How it will all pan out in the

End, whether truth will out.
The girl enters the room and
Sits beside him; half dressed

In simple reds, some foreign
Chick he'd picked up some weeks
Back, feeling lonely. She kisses

His cheek; simple thing kissing.
Something not there though;
Something missing. Kennedy’s

Dead, Warne had said. Cole
Remembers seeing that other
Photograph of Jack’s head part

Blown away. He sips his drink,
Feels the girl’s lips, wet and
Warm, remembers, forgets,

The Oswald myth, the lone
Shooter, blood on Jackie’s
Coat. The girl licks his ear,

Snakelike, worming the wet
Pointed end, another orifice
To explore. Jack’s gone; head

Blown apart; Warne passed
Away some years back, ******
Up heart. Cole sighs, the girl

Moves away, the ear wet with
Spittle; nothing matters now,
He muses darkly, or very little.

She lay beside you
under the apple trees

the bees and butterflies overhead
the glimmer of sunlight

through the branches
and she said

I can smell the apples
from here

and if I close my eyes
I feel I’m in a foreign field

lying in some overseas orchard
and happy beneath the sun

and you turned your head
and said

Am I with you
lying in that orchard

beneath a foreign sun?
and you studied her profile

the shadows dancing
across her cheek

a butterfly just above her head
Sure

she said
As if I’d dream of anywhere

without you by my side
and she reached out a hand

and touched your fingers
with hers and it seemed

a pulse danced
between the fingers

as if love momentarily
could be felt

could be sensed
in the space

between fingers
and riding

in the hearts
and heads

and she turned
to face you

her eyes reflecting
a different sun

and your hand sliding
along her thigh

and she shaking
her head slightly

eased out
a soft sigh.

Miriam
*******
in the tent

out of wet
underclothes
where the dim

hippy guy
spilt his drink
on purpose

by design
or by sheer
clumsiness

was unclear
the short skirt
a bright red

was now stained
Benedict
had not seen

he was off
in Tangier
sight-seeing

she tosses
the wet stuff
in a bag

and pulls out
dry clean clothes
from the white

new suitcase
her parents
had bought her

for the trip
she dresses
and goes out

of the tent
avoiding
the hippy

in the bar
with red beard
and guitar

and goes sit
on the beach
wondering

what it was
Benedict
was doing

she wishes
he was there
making love

hot with her
his fingers
in her hair.

Benedict looked over
the edge of the garden
looked down
at the sheer drop

Lizbeth looked over too
standing beside him
quite a drop
she said

are your two little sisters
safe when they stand here ?
she asked
we’re usually with them

or my mum
Benedict said
he looked
at the beautiful view

ahead of him
hills
fields
trees and bushes

birds in the sky
she looked sideways
on at him
his quiff of hair

the open neck shirt
the jeans
the rest of his family
were out picking blackberries

while he was here
alone with her
and all he talked of
was the garden

and the view
and how he helped up
at the farm
she looked back

at the cottage
thought of his room
the bed
the glass tank

of shells
and bones
and moss
the model Spitfire

hanging from the ceiling
she wouldn’t mind
the Spitfire
if she were laying there

looking up at it
while Benedict was on her
entering her
and the bed

was creaking
and she saying
(what the girl in class
said she did)

but no
instead she was standing
in his garden
on the edge

while he talked
of seeing
some butterfly
as if she cared

what he saw
except her
on his bed unclothed
sensing him

touching
feeling
gazing at the ceiling
can’t we go in?

she said
get to your bed?
have s.e.x.
before your mother

comes back?
Benedict thought he saw
a sparrow hawk
hovering in the bluey sky

beautiful in its skill
ready to dive and ****
I’m dying
to have *** with you

she said bluntly
tugging at his arm
not now
he said

he smelt the farm
over the way
sensed the cool
of county calm.

You turn
and gaze down
at Ness
by the stream,

her back bent,
her arm pecking
at the canvas
like a hungry bird.

You remember one like her,
the long hair
down the back,
the eyes

a piercing blue,
the mouth sensual,
full of words.
She has that sensuality

you fear, mistrust and lack.
You let your eyes
move over
her figure

like a sculptor,
smoothing out,
feeling the rough
and smooth, sensing

the secret places
where darkness looms,
easing out sharpness
and unwanted pieces.

While her husband was off
fighting a war
in a foreign land
she gave birth
to a dead child.

He could have had home leave
have left the war
for other men to fight
have been by her side
in her darkest night,
but he chose to go to war
selected some overseas conflict
to get engaged in battle
leaving her an empty womb,
and a still born babe,
a vacant cot,
a silent rattle.

How long that one hold?
That caressing of one lost
what emotional cost?
While he was off
spilling blood
on a foreign shore,
she buried the child
in a small coffin
of her choosing.

While he was at war
in some other land,
she felt her grief grow;
all else, marriage,
mind’s peace,
heart’s love,
she had lost
or was loosing.

Lydia follows her big sister
out of the flat;
she is tall
and has a blonde
explosion of hair,
eye-shadow so thick
she appears clown like.

She walks off
with her tight-dressed
backside swinging away.

I watch her go,
fascinated how
she manages to balance
on such high heeled shoes.

Be glad
when she leaves home,
maybe then
I get to have
my bed back,
Lydia says.

How does she balance
in those shoes?

Practise,
she's worn them
since she could walk,
Dad says.

Her big sister, Gloria,
goes down the *****
and out of sight.

Where we going?
I ask.

You decide.

What about
taking a train
to Peckham Rye?

Have to get some money;
I'll scrounge off Mum.

So she goes indoors
and I stand outside
the door
looking out
at the Square,
hearing voices
from within.

An old guy walks past
with his Boxer dog,
he nods to me
as he passes.

Lydia's mother
comes to the door
with Lydia behind her.

Think I have loads of money?
Think I can afford
to let her go here
and there
just on a whim?

No, I have money,
my old man gave it me
for polishing his shoes,
not that they needed polishing,
but he likes them
real bright brown.

I don't give a ****
where you get
your money from,
but I haven't money
to waste
on a train journey
for her.

I can pay.

You?

Sure, I have enough.

She is silent
(miracles happen).

She stares at me
with her beady eyes.

If you are paying,
then she can go,
but no monkey business,
no getting in people’s way.

She walks indoors
and leaves Lydia
standing there wide-eyed
and open mouthed.

I can go?

Sure you can,
but no monkey business,
whatever that means.

No climbing trees,
I guess.

We set off together
through the Square
and down the *****,
she looking back,
I taking in
her thinness
and lank hair,
and that look
of uncertain
despair.

Miss G walks
down the aisle
between desks

the Chopin
playing loud
from an old

gramophone
on her desk
Reynard sits

beside me
his eyes closed
pretending

he likes it
but really
in his head

he's thinking
of football
Yochana

sits at front
her dark hair
shoulder length

her elbows
on the desk
her thin hands

together
the fingers
counting time

such fingers
so stick like
I study

how they move
fingers tips
pacing time

her thin frame
her profile
as she turns

angelic
but too pale
and the cheek

which I kissed
some weeks back
seems to wait

(I presume)
for me to
kiss again

but slower
the next time
not a peck

but a big
hot smacker
of my lips

on her cheek
or soft lips
or neck or

wherever.

Milka braves
her brothers'
teasing taunts

and gets dressed
in her room
what to wear?

she takes out
the short skirt
the red one

tries it on
does a twirl
bit too short

Mum will say
she mutters
shows too much

too much what?
she had asked
your *******

Mum had said
she takes off
the red skirt

and puts on
the knee length
orange dress

bit boring
with flowers
it will do

Mum likes it
will Benny?
he will be

coming soon
she mutters
she puts on

her stockings
and black shoes
ready now

she goes out
to show Mum
her mother

studies her
length of dress
stocking seams

straight and neat
shoes on feet
and behave

Mother says
behave what?
Milka asks

don't be smart
Mother says
I know best

what it's like
what what's like?
Milka grins

Mother stares
looks away
Benny comes

through the door
Mother smiles
dabs her hair

pulls her dress
stands *****
Benny smiles

like Elvis
Mother moans
inwardly

if only
she were young
Milka sighs

will this do?
shows Benny
the old dress

yes he says
that looks fine
Mother swoons

secretly
if only
she utters

inwardly
he was mine.

Sidney was 5’2’
and weighed 200lbs
and was 79 years old

and each morning
you had to clean him up
and wash and dry
and powder him
and dress him
in his old clothes

but this morning
having done all that
he said
you don’t know
what war is like
you youngsters

he had broken
his usual silence
words instead of grunts
communication
instead of his own
quiet conversation
beneath breath

it’s not like it’s seems
in the films

I guess not
you said
and sat beside him
on the unmade bed

and he told you
of life in the trenches
of blood and guts
and men without arms
or legs or heads
lying there exposed

he paused now
and then
to look
at his arthritic hands
the fingers bent
the nails fresh clipped

he said
I stumbled
into this woods once
by mistake
and there they were
hundreds of bodies
mostly dressed in uniforms
bloodied some
but mostly just lying there
piled in some areas
like hunks of meat
and one of two
were by my feet
as if asleep

here he stopped
and looked at you
young as you
some were
fresh faced
blank of eye
sans gaze
sans life
some one’s husband
or lover or father
or brother

he paused
to stroked his head
with his bent fingers  

never forgotten that
he said
those carcasses
the silent soldiers
the forgotten dead

he was quiet after that
and you got him
off the bed
and on his way
on his frame
along the passage
to the dining room
shuffling
at his own pace
with short moustache
and war memories
lined
on his warrior face.

Saba sat there
and posed herself
all ready for what
she didn't say

part of my job
she said
this posing
this being seen
as such

I gazed
like a man dazed

haven't you seen
a woman like this
before?

yes
I said
sure I have

then why
the wide eye gaze?
she said

I sat down opposite
hands on my knees
looking at her hair
at her eyes
the pose
do you do this often?
I said

only if he wants me to
she said
he'll be back
he's just gone
for a bite to eat

don't you eat too?

not yet
if I get out of pose
I lose my focus
she said

does he pay well?
I asked

this is art
she said
I get enough
but it's not the pay
that counts
it's being part
of art
it'll be me
on the canvas
me outliving him

I wanted a smoke
but I’d left them
in my coat downstairs
got a ciggie?
I asked

he doesn't allow
smoking
in his studio
she said
fire risk
oils
and other
stuff around

when do you get done?
I asked

when he says
she replied
not a nine
to five job

I gazed at her
with more focus
putting out of mind
the image of her
sitting in the church pew
with her husband
he all prim and proper
and she innocent as cream

she uncrossed
her legs
revealing
a young man's dream.

The tall monk
with the large keys;
his way of opening up

the door to the church
as if moving the stone
from the tomb of Christ,

the key having done its job
is placed back
in his black habit pocket.

I polish the choir stalls
with duster
and an old tin

of polish;
I recall her lips
******* me

to a heaven.
The squat monk
pulled weeds

from the side bed,
the sun on his
bent tonsure head.

I went to watch tennis
with Fay
on the South Bank
by the Thames
(amateurs but good)

we sat in the stands
it was warm
the sun was out
in the sky
like a big boy
showing its muscles

I shouldn't be here really
Fay said
I should be home
studying the letters
of St Paul
Daddy wants me
to know them by heart

why's that
why learn them
by heart?

he said
the nuns at school said
I don't seem
to know them
that well

do you?

I thought I did
but he thinks not
she said

we watched the players
and the tennis ball
going left to right

I only learn by heart
what I like
my old man tests me
sometimes on
who was in what film
because he's
a film buff
but he don't worry none
if I don't know
and I usually don't
or I pretend I don't
because I'm too lazy
to tell him

o you are naughty
she said
my father wants me
to know things
wants me to know
the Pater Noster in Latin

Pater Noster?
What the heck is that
when it's at home?

it's the Lord's Prayer
but in Latin

o that
I know that mainly
because we have it
day after day in assembly
at school
I said

we do too
but in Latin
she said

there was cheering
from those around us
as a player
won his match
and we clapped too
even though we'd not
been watching
that closely

fancy ice cream?
I asked

sure that'd be nice
she said

so we walked along
the South Bank
to some guy in white
who was selling some
from an ice cream van
and bought two

and stood by the Thames
and watched
the water and boats
and such passing
us by

she reciting
the Pater Noster in Latin
I thinking
of pirate ships
at sea
which were
really tug boats
below me.

Elaine ate her sandwiches
in the lunch room
sitting on a stool
eyes lowered

trying not to listen
to others
in the room
not wanting

to draw attention
to herself
sitting there
the bread

was dried out
the luncheon meat
yucky and tasteless
the window looked out

on the playing field
sun was out
sky silky blue
she ate as much

as she wanted
and got off the stool
packed
her lunch box away

and left the room
and walked down
the passageway
and out onto the field

where she waited
by the fence
her satchel
over her shoulder

what you waiting for Frumpy?
a girl said
passing her by
she didn't reply

she looked
at the field
to see if the boy
named John

was out there
somewhere
she tightened her grip
on the satchel strap

boys passed by
a group of girls giggling
she felt self conscious
looked at her shoes

her laces
the way she tied them
I’m a bit late
John said

but here now
she looked up
and he was there
with his quiff of hair

and hazel eyes
been waiting long?
he said
no not long

she said
just come out
he nodded
and looked around him

she looked away
felt tense
felt her body shake
how about a walk?

he said
she moved with him
as he walked
from the fence

he spoke
of the lessons
of the morning
she listened

but didn't listen
the words seemed
odd to her floating
about her

she gazed at his hand
beside her
the fingers
the ink stains

on the tips
still he spoke on
and she moved her hand
close to his

so that
they almost brushed
against each other
her hand just inches away

he talked almost
non stop
his words spilling out
his eyes wide open

she felt strange
felt her stomach tighten
her legs shaky  
can we sit for a while?

she said
yes yes
he  said
and they sat

on the grass
near the upper fence
are you all right?
he asked

she nodded
folding her legs
under her
pulling her green skirt

over her knees
he went on
about the Jay he'd seen
about where it nested

and all she could think of
was his neck showing
where buttons were undone
the naked skin

his Adam's apple
rising and falling
and nearby in the woods
a bird was calling.

Gefen said
that girl you like
that one
who stinks somewhat

and looks as if
she slept in a barn
is in the girl's bog-house
crying

I looked at him
and flicked
my cigarette card
against the wall

of the playground
it wasn't near enough
to win I didn't think
why's she crying?

I asked
how the ****
would I know
he said

just saw her go in
and heard the sobbing
I watched
as another kid

flicked his card
near touch the wall
and fall
ok you win

I said
and walked up the steps
from the playground
and walked

to the bogs
and listened
with ear to the door
that you Enid?

I asked
no it's Coleman
what do you want?
I said nothing

and wandered off away
and there was Enid
by a window
what's up?

I said
she looked at me
through smeary glasses
not here

she said
not what here
I said
I can't say here

ok where then?
I said
so she beckoned me
to follow her

along a dank passageway
(there were many)
until we came
to where the cleaners

kept their brooms
and buckets
and such stuff
and she sneak inside

and pulled me in
beside her
well?
I said

sniffing the air
of disinfect
and soap
and yesterday's clothes

can't sit properly
she said
and she lifted
her dull grey dress

to reveal a red weal
along her thigh
and beyond
it hurts when I sit

and I can't say why
and it hurts to sit
she lowered her dress
and looked at me

red eyed
and dripping nose
your old man?
I asked

she nodded
and looked around
the small room
her eyes vacant

say you've got a boil
on your backside
and ask for a cushion
I did last term

when I had boils
on mine
she looked unsure
really?

yes really
I said
I'll ask
old ma Murphy

if you like
she's got loads
of cushions
Enid looked at me

her eyes dull
as dishwater
ok
she said

she kissed my cheek
and followed me out
and along
to Murphy's room

uncertain
and unhappy
as if facing
death and doom.

Milka  wanted
to have ***
in the hay barn

but she feared
the rats and mice
or her father

finding out
and tanning
her backside

the colour
of sunset
so we went

to the cinema
and saw Elvis
with jangling guitar

and swinging hips
and after
we went  

to the park
and sat
on a bench

and watched
the ducks swim
but the hay barn

would have been better
despite the rats
or mice

or the tanned
backside
the colour

of sunset
she said
I bet.