She remembers him well.
He was her mother’s best
Friend, the one she went to

When she was feeling low or
Out of some product he could
Go buy and bring to her that

And his brand of comfort. She
Remembers how he would make
That loud laugh and give her

Mother that hug he gave, that
Big hearted outward show,
Those blue eyes of his bright

As polished wood. She moves
Now out of the shadows, leaves
The dark just behind, sees where

Once her mother used to stand
And prepare lunch or wash dishes,
Where he’d come behind her and

Put his arms about her and squeeze
And kiss her mother’s neck. She
Remembers him well, she as that

Little girl, the one her mother never
Really knew, the one her mother
Gave birth to (a mistake grown up)

Her mother used to say when angry
Or wild. Never my lovely child. Yes,
She remembers him, the way he

Looked at her when her mother’s
Back was turned, the way he gave
Her thigh a squeeze on passing on

Through to do some job or some
Such thing to do. She recalls how
He crept into her room at night if

Mother let him stay and sat on the
Edge and stared at her lying pretending
Sleep. She sighs, moves through her

Mother’s old house now up for sale,
Soaks in the things that hold memories,
The chairs, the beds, the sofa by the wall,

The pillow where once she laid her head.
She stares out the window at the garden
And trees and hills beyond. She stood

Here once, when young and he came
Put his arms about her and squeezed
Her young girl ******* and laughed when

She squirmed away. Mother didn’t know
Of that or if she did she didn’t say. Not
Then not later, not even when she lay

Dying from disease and had only herself
To live or die for and no other to please.
What her mother didn’t know could fill a

Book, what her mother didn’t understand
Or seem to realize was that that man
She’d brought home had ***** her young
Daughter and spread like dark oil, his sea of lies.

And Fay is there by the wall
of the playground
-a basement of a bombed
out house cleared

of the upper building-
I step down onto
the tarmac area
and she sees me

and smiles
and I go over to her
and I say
you want to talk

with me?
and she says
yes
so I look around

and see its getting
pretty crowded now
as its recess time
and kids have

had their meals
let's go up
onto the flower
bedding area

its quieter there
so we walk off
and up
and we're alone

except for a few kids
gazing at the flowers
what you want
to talk to me about?

I ask
she looks unhappy
and when I see
her unhappy it tugs

at my heart strings-
or some place
inside of me-
I'm going

to a Catholic school
once we leave
junior school
this year

she says
and I won't be in
the same school
or class as you

why are you going
to a Catholics school?
I ask
taking in

her teary eyes
we are Catholics
and my daddy
wants me to go there

and away
from the Protestant
riff-raff as he calls them
but I like it here

and being with you
and my other friends
but he is adamant
I am going

she says
that's too bad
I say
I'll miss you

being around
and walking home
from school with you
-she lives

in the flat upstairs
from me-
what school will you
be going to?

she asks
almost in a cry
an all-boys school
no girls at all

that will be
punishment in itself
let alone
the tough kids

and teachers
who're mostly
ex-army
I say

we will see each other
though at weekends
and maybe
some evenings

won't we?
she looks at me
with her blue
becoming watery eyes

can you meet me
after school some days?
she asks
sure I can

and her 11 year old hand
touches my
11year old hand
and it feels

warm and soft
and then before
other kids
-especially boys-

can note
she kisses my cheek
and walks way
and I think

God thank you
for the kiss
and lips
and lovely today.

Helen put dandelions
she had picked
into the pocket
of her dress

present for my mum  
she said
she likes flowers
soon be her birthday

but I don't know
how old she is  
but flowers
is the best to get

don't you think?
Benedict nodded
he'd taken her
to the grass

in the park
where dandelions
grew in abundance
she'll like them

he said
I think so
Helen said
they came out

of Jail Park
and crossed Bath Terrace
and along
by the metal fence

until they came
to Rockingham Street
she talking
about the man

who stopped her
on the way to school
a few says before
and he said

he would take her
to the seaside
if she went with him
there and then

what did you say
to him?
Benedict asked
I didn't know

what to say
he looked so scary
should have gone
to find a copper

Benedict said
I was scared
she said
so what happened?

I just stared at him dumbly
like I was an imbecile
as Dad says to me
when I sit

at the dinner table
with my mouth open
then what?
Benedict said

he took my hand in his
and it was hot
and sweaty
and I screamed at him

and he ran off
she said
good for you
Benedict said

should have
kneed him one
I was too scared
to do anything

that's why
I screamed
they went under
the railway bridge

just as a steam train
went across the bridge
and pushed grey
and white smoke

over the side
and into the sky
and she said
where would he

have taken me
do you think?
God knows
Benedict said

but not to the seaside
but he didn't say where
he kept that
dark image

to himself
and let it stay there.

When I was young
I tended to think

I had forever
and cast

my time around
like a spend drift

with the shakes,
but as I get older

and I know
I am on

my last run
I tend to count

my time
like a tight-******

miser
trying to hoard

those few coins
of time.

Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local ****, she doesn’t know.

She’s been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist’s tools and useful stuff.

She has modelled for others and
They’ve always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, ***, and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.

Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.

She recalls the artist’s antics the night
Before, the want of ***, the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.

She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.

She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.

The Catholic priest came
and gave last rites;
you were comatosed,
though I expect you heard;
they say one does,
even then, shalom, amen.

We held your hands
most of that last day,
one of us staying,
whilst the other
(went for drink or such)
went silently away,
but too long or much.

Puffed up hand and arm,
your eyes closed;
tubes and wires
coming out
here and there;
all those machines
keeping you alive,
pumping away,
softly noisy.

We never gave up
you'd survive,
watched and held
and talked until
the last eased out breath.

A lonely place,
some say, is death.

We were there,
breaking up
at your departure;
didn't want you to go;
but you fought until end,
stoic, silent, Seneca like,
our son, and these hearts,
which no time
or words or prayers
or creed( at this time)
can mend.

You cut the motor
On the mower. I’ve

Never seen the grass
Cut with so much

Enthusiasm, Father
Dean said, coming

Up along side the abbey
Church where you

Had mown, you a
Postulant monk, he

A professed monk,
Bearded (permission

Granted due to a fragile
Heart) robed in black.

He smiled, his tired
Gaze scanned where

You had been. I like it
Out in the fresh air,

You said shyly. To work
Is to pray, he said, and

To pray is to work. You
Have done both. You

Smiled and looked over
The mown stretch of

Grass beside the abbey
Church. The bell tolled

From the bell tower.
Must go, he said, the

Lord calls. He wandered
Slowly down by the back

Of the abbey and out of
Sight. Over by the side

The monk’s cemetery stood
Silent and still, the stone

Crosses marking the resting
Place of monks who had died.

Overhead, in the sky black and
Long winged rook flew and cried.

I like cloud formations
Jane said
laying on her back

in the small church yard
looking up at the sky
above her head

it’s like a form of art
you said
grey and white

against a canvas of blue
that looks like a man’s head
Jane said

the way it forms
and unforms
you followed

the pointing
of her finger at the sky
that looks like a dog

over there
you said
she looked

and then gazed at you
her blue eyes
catching the sun’s light

through a tree above
I like these moments alone
with you

she said
no one near us
no disturbance

no sounds save for birdsong
and the buzz of bees
you moved closer to her

and lay with you right hand
supporting your head
searching her eyes

her dark hair
about her face
daddy said

that Heaven is above us
and looking
at the cloud formations

I feel I see it
especially when the sun
shines through

she said
her lips moving
with slow motion

I think that sometimes
you said
she leaned nearer to you

and kissed your lips
then lay back
and stared at the clouds

and sky
and you lay back too
thinking inwardly

this is where
I’d like to lie
the day I die.

Her mother
at the sink
peeling spuds

I behind
sitting there
in a chair
sipping tea
given me

radio
playing pop
some singer
singing soft

won't be long
she tells me
Milka's such
a slow girl
takes her time
at most things

(I know things
she's quick at
but don't tell
her mother)

I've told her
that you're here
Benedict
but you know
what girls are

I notice
her mother's
wide spread hips
bulging *******
beneath blouse

here she comes
she tells me

and Milka
enters in
sulky faced
arms folded

water's cold
couldn't bathe
she mutters
had to wash
using cold

no matter
Mother says
you're ok
fire's relit
be hot soon

too late now
Milka says
moodily

never mind
Mother says
Benedict
is here now

so we go
out the door
Milka's hand
searching mine
small and warm
heart thumping
mood a storm.

You remembered
the girl
not her name
but Ward

the kid next to you
in the science class
caught sight
of the girls

through the window
off across
the sports field
in their yellow tops

and green
short
P.E. skirts
and said

in hushed voice
look at that
all that girl flesh
and me stuck here

being brain soddened
by this science guff
when I could be out
with the girls

you saw her
out there
with skip rope
rushing after others

the sun warm
the sky hazy
the science teacher
sprouting off

about something boring
and Ward
his eyes
supping it all in

through the glass
the sports teacher
following
in her adult

blue top
and white P.E skirt
with whistle
between lips

and the girl
had been swallowed up
into the mass
of yellows

and greens
and legs
and arms
and the glass

of the classroom
like a huge
picture frame
holding for the eyes

the girls
in yellow and green
and the girl
with the lost name.

Whatever else
her Polish accent
didn’t do
it didn't stop

her quest for ***
and Benedict
nigh on gave in
one or twice

(who was counting?)
time on his hands
(a rare event)
or caught unaware

and thinking
do I dare?
and he had to admit
even against

his better will
she was
a lovely dame
and such

well?
Sophia said
you want to?
he looked passed her

at the door closed
the bed fresh made
as if she knew
bins all emptied

of their dust
and muck
you want me?
you want to ****?

he looked
at her blue uniform
the greeny top
the tight pressing bra

the eyes ice cool
I don't know
he said
what if some one calls?

or the old guy
comes back
to his room
for some reason

or other?
Sophia stood
always the excuses
always the worry

of others coming
or going
she said
come on

she said
sitting on
the fresh made bed
have me now

make up
your mind
he gazed out
the window

the snow was settled
trees hung
white with brown
not just now

he said
as she spread
herself down
upon the bed

one leg raised
a glimpse of thigh
caught as in a mirror
of his turning eye.

Janice said
she wanted to show me
how well she skipped
with her new skip rope

I watched
as her small hands
held the wooden ends
and her arms

circled like windmills
and her feet
lifted from the ground
in an odd dance

the rope going over
and under
over and under
have a go

she said
no it's OK
I said
let me show you

how good I can draw
my new gun
from my holster
I said

tapping
the toy gun
at my side
a brown hat

(an uncle's trilby)
plonked
on my head
she watched me

her red beret
on her head
the lemon dress
I liked her in

the black plimsolls
touching toes
I took out the gun
and spun it

around my finger
like I’d seen
in the Jeff Chandler films
my old man

took me to see
my other hand
spaced at my side
I put the gun back

in the holster
and on the count of
1-2-3
I drew the gun

in the blink
of her lovely blue eyes
as 1-2-3
bad cowboys

(invisible to her)
fell and died
can I have a go?
she asked

sure you can
I said
so undid the belt
and holster and gun

and handed them
to her
to put on
which she did

in clumsy fashion
all fingers and thumbs
once she was ready
(at her own

female pace)
she said
count me in
so I said ok

and counted 1-2-3
and she went
for the gun
and sent it

spinning
through the air
catching sun light
on the silvery parts

as it fell
to the ground
with a clattering
spark flying

cap banging
sound.

That Sunday after church
after singing in the choir
after getting off the bus

and walking into
the small woods
behind your house

the skies opened
and rain fell
and you and she

ran for cover
beneath the trees
the raindrops slipping

through the leaves
and branches
and dropping

on your heads
and clothes
and she said

what will Mother say
this is my best dress
and she laughed

and you looked
at the beauty of her
and the freshness of rain

washing away
whatever sins
may have lurked

on her youthful flesh
and you kissed her lips
and she hugged you close

and the rain fell heavier
and you didn’t care
just standing there

hugging and kissing
the clothes becoming heavier
with wetness

and her dress
clinging to her
revealing her shape

and the outline
of her underclothes
and as you stood back

and gazed at her
and she at you
there was the distant sound

of thunder
and she looked up
and away and shivered

and said
let’s run let’s go
and what may have happened

if the thunder never sounded
and you hadn’t run
you’ll never know.

Bring the stones
with you
I said

Helen reluctantly
brought the stones
from the bomb site

(her mother said
about cat's peeing
on the bomb site
and stones)

she held them
in her small hands

where are we going?
she asked

I want to show you
this bombed out place
beyond the tabernacle

are we allowed?

sure as long
as we aren't seen
by the Rozzers
I said

she stopped
I am not
to get into trouble
mum said
not to
she said

we are adventurers
are we not?
we go where
others don't

no trouble
Mum said
she said
looking troubled

she put the stones
in her cardigan pockets
and wiped
her hands
on her skirt

you will get me
in trouble Benny

I won't
I said
I just want
to show you
this fireplace
in the bombed out house

she frowned
what's so special
about a fireplace?

it looks antique
I said
black with patterns
and such

she pushed her
thick lens glasses
back on her nose

I studied her deeply

your hair looks nice

it looks the same
as always
she said
too curly and thick

I like it

if you get me
into trouble Benny
I won't talk
to you again
she said

is that a promise?
I said

she sighed
we shouldn't go
to bomb sites
my mum said
7 year olds
aren’t safe there

I can get you
a 3d lolly afterwards
I said
and maybe
a 1d drink
from the Penny Shop

she looked at me
through her glasses
and tidied up
her hair

OK
she said
but I promise you
about not talking
to you again
if I get
into trouble

take care
of the stones
I said

she nodded
her brown curly
two plaited head.

You both walked along
the narrow country lane

to the small church
and lay in the overgrown grass

in the churchyard
looking up

at the summer sky
and Jane said

It’s so peaceful here
I feel as if part of me


were mixed
with the whole


of nature
you listened to her

looking at her
sideways on

seeing her profile
laying amidst

the green grass
her head facing

the blueness of sky
her hands resting

upon her *******
with one leg straight

the other lifted upwards
with the knee bent

Do you feel that?
she asked

looking at you side wards
her eyes leaving the sky

and resting on you
Yes

you replied
but not thinking

of what she had
but of the beauty of her

and you being there
and taking note

of her eyes and hair
and moving lips

and hands at rest
and her soft youthful breast

and that glimpse
of thigh capturing

your eye
Yes

you repeated
I feel a part of that

feel almost drowned
in its beauty

and she turned
and you saw her smile

and heard birdsong
and felt the sun on skin

and the saw the expanse
of sky and clouds

white chariots moving
across the blue

and wanted that moment
for always and forever

and you reached out a hand
and touched her shoulder

and would had touched
and felt her more

had you been bolder
and she said

We lay here with the dead
but our bones and flesh

are filled with life and love
unlike theirs

wasted away
Yes

you whispered
feeling her bones

beneath the flesh
Just like us some day.

It’ll not be the first time he’ll
Have said that and not meant
It and she knows oh how she
Knows that he will probably
Say it again and bring her the
Usual flowers and maybe a new
Dress two sizes too big for her
And have that look on his face
That look he used to give his
Mother when he was late home
Or if he’d not noticed her having
Had her hair done and she knows
He’ll get down on his knees and
Pretend to beg for forgiveness
Yet at the back of his mind he’s
Already imagining the girl in the
Office bent over her desk and him
Doing what he thinks he does best
And now as she waits for him to
Come home knowing he’ll have
The words sitting on the end of
His tongue like obedient puppies
Ready for the false apology and
The flowers in one hand and the
Maybe new dress in the other and
Even though she will be able to
Smell the other woman’s scent and
See her hairs on his jacket he’ll
Have that dumb look about him
As if butter wouldn’t melt as if ice
Wouldn’t drown his drink and as
She waits for him she really just
Wants him not to come home at
All wants him to stay with the other
Woman soak into her sheets and
Into her skin with his two bit morality
And sin oh that he didn’t come home
At all she mumbles as she hears his
Key in the lock and that stupid look
On his face as the door opens up and
The flowers and bag with dress in each
Hand and hair limp by the rain she knows
He’ll say he loves her and she knows he
Will do it again the liar her lover the pain.

She knows these are her
Last moments with her still
Born babe knows they’ll take
The babe away and leave
Her arms empty like the
Cradle at home standing
In the nursery especially
Prepared with the wallpaper
Chosen and the new carpets
Laid and she hugs the babe
Close to her ******* tries to
Bring warmth to the lifeless
Bundle wrapped in a white
Blanket and we’ll be back in
A while the nurse had said
and she left the small room
and the door clicked shut
With a small click and she
Walks the room rocking
The babe feeling the weight
Sensing her child there her
Flesh and blood and she
Wants to breathe life into
The tiny lungs want to see
Movement wants there to
Be a miracle to shock them
To say look there is life you
Must have been mistaken
But no matter how hard she
Breathes or rocks the babe
No life comes no movement
No miracle of miracles and
Out of the window as she passes
The trees have that winter
Bareness the sky the greyness
Of cannon smoke and a little
Way off a woman laughs a
Vacuum machine is turned
On and a baby cries but not
Hers for hers is silent unmoving
Becoming cold and stiff and
She kisses the pale cheek the
Forehead seeks out the small
Uncrutching hands the tiny
Curved fingers and holding
The babe up tight against her
She doesn’t want the separation
To come doesn’t want the nurse
To take away the babe in her
Arms but she knows the minutes
Tick away and the nurse will
Come and the empty arms will
Leave her broken and numb.

O the rain yesterday
Miriam says
didn't it come down?
I thought once

in San Sabastian
all would be well
and then it poured
I sit next to her

in the camp cafe
others from the coach
were there
some looked fed up

with the weather
I know
the guide said to me
and the ex-army guy

there's your tent
down in the field
and it was pouring
down with rain

and we could hardly see
and the ex-army guy
says to me  
what the heck

I thought
by coming here
I'd get away
from manoeuvres

what's he like?
she asks
he's ok I guess
I say

bet you wish
it was me
in your tent?
she says

be a bit crowded
three of us
not with him
just me and you

o sure
that'd go down
a bundle with him
and others

I say
but I like to think
it was possible
especially as

the ex-army guy
kept me awake
a good part
of the night

moaning about
his mother's
new boyfriend
and how he gets

on his nerves
and how the army
was once his life
anyway maybe later

we can
she says
I nod
and think of her

on the journey
down from Paris
on the coach
her next to me

the dim lights
on the coach
through the Parisian night
us kissing

and such
doing all right.

We sit on a river bank
our bikes resting
against a tree;
Milka throwing
small pieces of branches
into the river's flow.

Some one said
you can't walk
in the same river twice,
she says,
don't know
who said it,
but some one said it.

Heraclitus,
some Greek guy said it,
I say.

She looks at me,
her eyes cow-like,
deep and sad.
What's he mean?

It's not the same water,
it moves on like our lives;
we can't stand still
no matter how much
we wish we could.

Where'd you read that?

I study her sitting there;
her hair brushed back,
tied by a ribbon;
her grey coat,
the brown and pink dress
coming to the knees,
black stockings.

Reader's Digest,
I guess.

I hate cold water;
had to wash in it
this morning
because the fire'd
gone out,
she says,
looking at
the river again.

I know,
I heard you moaning
at your mother.

She shrugs her shoulders,
continues throwing
branches in the river.

She moans at me
often enough.

But she's the parent,
that's what they do.

What would you do
if I stripped off now
and walked through
the river?
She says, smiling.

What would your mother say
if you did?

She'd not know.

If she did?

God knows;
slap me one, I guess,
but what would you do?
She asks me.

Nothing;
just watch the scene.

You wouldn't join me?

And get wet feet?
no, not me.

Spoilsport;
too cold anyway.

I open my cigarette packet
and take two out;
one for her
and one for me.

We light up
and sit musing,
the river flowing on,
slow,
moving over
small rocks and stones,
down a slight hill,
we sitting
watching its flow.

We were allowed out
of the coach
to stretch our legs
and have a quick look
around Poitiers
in France

Miriam stretched
her arms out
and kicked out
her legs
almost got cramp
she said

I could have massaged
them for you
I said
I’m an expert
at massaging
away cramps

sure you are
she said smiling
but not
on the coach
it's too impersonal

we walked around
Place de Gaulle
looking in shop windows
and cafés and restaurants

how about some coffee?
I asked

if you're paying
she said

anything for a lady
I said

and what did you want
in exchange?
she said
putting her hands
on her hips

who said anything
in exchange
I just want to buy
you a coffee

she smiled
OK if you say so
she said

so we sat outside
a small café
and ordered
two coffees and cake
and the waiter went off

I lit up a cigarette

what's the book
you're reading
on the coach?
she asked

it's called The Apostle
I said

what's it about?

St Paul

isn't he the guy
who fell from his horse
or donkey
when a voice
called to him
at Damascus?

yes something like that
I said

why are you
reading about him?

he interests me
I said

why?

well he went
from being a persecutor
of what we call
Christians now
to actually joining them
and becoming one
of their leaders

enough already
she said
I heard he
was against ***
and all that

I guess
he was not keen
on the idea

and you want to read
about him?
*** is a brilliant thing
without it
no one would
be here
not even that Paul guy
she said

the waiter brought
our coffees and cake
and went off

beside
she said
you weren't practising
what this Paul guy
was preaching
on the coach last night

never said I was
practising anything
but it was dim
on the coach
and most others
were asleep

she ate her cake
and I recalled
the coach radio
playing some Mozart piece
the night before
while she and I
tried to explore.

It's a fish
for God's sake
Anne said

seeing the
excitement
from the kids

having found
a dead fish
on the beach

and the nun
with them said
we could have

it for tea
or supper
there were cheers

from the kids
walking back
to the home

listen Kid
Anne said
if they think

I'm eating
that dead fish
they can go

**** themselves
the Kid looked
at the fish

being held
by its tail
by the nun

the dead eyes
staring out
don't eat it

Anne said
don't like it
swinging there

the dead eyes
the Kid said
pushing up

the pathway
the wheelchair
with Anne

inside it
him gazing
at her leg

and the gap
beside it
where her lost

leg had been
and the stump
lying there

visible
where her skirt
had risen

don't eat it
that dead fish
Anne said

no I won't
the Kid said
looking past

Anne's head
at the fish
swinging there

cold and dead.

She was there
in the church
arranging the flowers

at the altar end
where her mother said
she’d be when you knock

at the parsonage door
some moments back
and you entered

through the old oak door
into the silence
and smell of age and flowers

seeing her
in her summer dress
unaware you stood there

her hands touching
flowers in vases
moving them into place

an intenseness
on her face
you moved slowly

down the aisle
not wanting to disturb
or cause alarm  

then Jane turned
and smiled and said
I’ve nearly done

and tapped the flowers
in the final place
Where shall we go?

You moved closer
to where she stood
and said

To Heaven
if we’re good
they say

she shook her head
and said
I meant where

about outside?
Wherever you like
you replied

studying her hands
as she wiped them
on her summer dress

how the fingers lay
how some god
brought them

to such beauty
and her eyes
and hair

and her
just standing there
enough

you mused inside
not out
to bring one to a faith

of some creative god
and she said
Why do you stare?

What holds you
rooted there?
Let’s go climb

the Downs and look across
the vast expanse
of fields and trees

and birds in air
just you and me
and this love

just being there
Oh how romantic a mood
holds you today

she said and put her arm
through yours
and moved you on

and down the aisle
between the pews
unaware as youth

too often does
of hours passing
and having time to lose.

She’d be the one left
Out of conversations,
The onlooker, the dark

Peripheral angel, as
Father called her, always
Looking in, listening to

The talk, adding no words.
She knew the inner voices.
They spoke too frequently

To ignore. Don’t let it get
You down, one voice within
Would say, they’re just all

Too human for you to attend
To their talk or detail or wonder
Where silly speeches like theirs

Evolved. Father spoke of
Ideas, of the highbrow music,
The inner workings of the

Female brain, the morality
Of art. Mother never embraced
Or praised or spoke with

The echoes of love, just the
Voice connected to this and
That not being done or done

Too often or not frequent
Enough with the odd poke,
Shove or cuff. The well paid

Psychologist plumbed her
Depths like some pearl diver
Or tried to draw out of her

Deepness some clues to her
Makeup, something to hook
Theories on, to give him some

Glimmer of satisfaction that
He’d done his job, tied her
Up into a neat bundle of so

And so. She’d heard her parents
Talk of her, discuss her like
Some item bought; dissatisfied

With the poor quality and
Dysfunctionality found. They
Would say that wouldn’t they,

An inner voice said inside her
Head. Be of good cheer, another
Voice would whisper into her

Inner ear, you can dismantle
Them, my dear. She lay in bed
At night gazing at moon and stars,

Making her tongue cluck as she
Listened through the wall to the
Parents (in their own sad way) ****.

She shyly smiled.

Bespectacled,
with white blouse
and loose fitting tie,
she waited by the wall,
sitting, ankle socks,
black shoes, laced.

John passed with Rennie,
hands in pockets,
talking about Mr S
in P.E and the lengths
the guy'll go
to make his authority felt
and the country run
later that day.

Sheila watched him go.

Her thin wired spectacles
enlarging him
and focusing him
up for her.

She wanted to follow
and ask him if she
could hang out with him,
but she feared rejection
and so sat
and watched instead
until he and Rennie
were on the school
playing field
during recess.

She played
with her fingers,
looked around
the grounds,
watched other girls
pass by, braver,
more confident
than she,
more aware
of their worth
or what they
had to offer.

Wear this,
her mother said,
wear that,
don't sit so,
keep your knees together
in the presence
of boys and men
while sitting.

John, she watched,
on the playing field
with the boy called Rennie,
taking in his walk,
his gesture with hands,
his nod of head
or and how
the quiff of hair,
can drive her
to despair,
and maybe
much beside,
if her mother's dominance
wasn't there
in side

Don't feel well
Abela
turns in bed
eyes closing
too much wine

cheap old plonk
I tell her

don't like wine

did last night

need a bowl

don't have one
use the bog

she rushes
to the bog
and vomits

I sit down
have a smoke
listening

that waitress
who served us
yesterday
fancies me

Abela
shouts to me
I don't care
about her
I feel ill
need to rest

she vomits
once again

you go out
take that tour
she tells me

not going
without you

I can't go
not today
she comes back
with a bowl
I found this
in the bog
got to sleep

so she creeps
into bed
with the bowl

the waitress
did not have
a cute ***
not like my
Abela
when she's well
or unwell.

I show Lydia
the toy Bowie knife
which came

with the cowboy outfit
my parents had bought
for my 9th birthday

and there's a 6 shooter
and holster
and other stuff

I say
we're standing
on the platform

at Waterloo
watching for the next
steam train

to come in
it looks quite real
she says

can I feel it?
I hand her
the toy knife

and she rubs
her finger along
the blade

looks sharp
but it's not at all
she says

handing me
back the knife
I put the knife

into the belt
of my jeans
and we look

for a train
if Hem had that
he'd throw it

at me pretending
I was his
knife throwing

assistant she informs
your brother's a ****
I say

she smiles
what's that?
I think it means

an idiot
I reply
I look at her

standing there
with her thin arms
and straight fair hair

and that always
worried stare
that off grey dress

the black plimsolls
and white socks
here comes one

Lydia says
pointing towards
the far end

of the platform
and I see the smoke
in the air

and the sound  
and the smell
that steam trains have

and we stare
as it approaches
taking in the black

steaming beauty
of it as comes
on by

drinking in
the power
as it lets off steam

huge and noisy
like a dragon
in a dream.

Baby day.
That was it,

that day her
baby died,

stiff and white,
the Teddy,

dumb looking,
sat staring,

just a toy
not caring.

Early day
is the worse

of all times,
when her world,

baby world,
ceased to be,

and numbness
took over,

dark hours,
days and months,

and now years.
None went there,

baby's room,
except her;

the husband
ignored it,

the others,
grandparents,

other kids,
past tense talked

baby's death,
turned blind eye

to the place
of the death.

She alone
visited

each morning
to check cot,

pat Teddy,
tidy up

the blankets,
one pillow,

and pull down
the toy string

making an
angel sing.

Then each night
she repeats

rituals
of palm blown

soft kisses
to the spot

where ghostly
baby smiles

phantom lips,
that no one,

except she,
and teddy,

ever see.

And we're in line
for school dinner
and the trestles
have been set up

for the purpose
and Fay
is in front of me
in the line up

and I smell
a scent flower like
fresh and rewarding
after sitting

next to Dennis
most of the morning
in class
her hair is fair

and almost blonde
and down
to her shoulders
there are two

yellow ribbons
holding the hair
in bunches
I study

I sniff gently
not loudly
not taking
a pig's sniff

but just
an intake of breath
of a sniff
and she moves

along the line
and I move
after her
and her hands

are white
and the fingers delicate
and the nails
filed and neat

and she's shy
and turns and says
can we talk
after dinner?

sure we can
I say
taking in her
blue eyes

and the lips
and God I think
how is it
that my

11 year old
brain and eyes
are feasting on
her 11year old being

as such
I don't know
no more than I know
why flowers die

then bulbs come
or why my
great grandmother
dies and that's it

and she turns back
to the dinner lady
and the woman says
two ***** of potato

or one?
peas? carrots?
she nods her head
and says

one ball please
and then moves on
with her plate
and I face

the woman and say
all that I can have
and she looks at me
with her dark eyes
and sighs.

Tanya had not seen
the thing from that
angle, she’d only seen

it from her own narrow
gauge of looking, and
of course there was

the blindness, caused
by hate, and he had
after all gone off with

that skinny ****, and
after all the effort she’d
taken to loose weight,

and oh yes, he had gone
and taken her favourite
dress the red one she’d

out grown, and the one
she’d once much favoured,
although she’d only worn

it the once, and now that
thin bean of a girl had it
on, oh how could he, she

spat out, while lounging
in the bath, the water
almost to the rim, and she

there looking at her pink
plumpness, and how her
**** could almost swim, oh

come back, do not leave me
here, she moaned although
there was none to hear her,

except the guy in the flat next
door, but he was kind of queer,
oh where is love when you need

it? and where is some god to protect?
Oh, she said, all my plans are wrecked.

Your worth
not in flowers

or tombstone's depth
or height,

but in the heaviness
of the heart,

the haunting look
from old photos.

I dreamed of you,
not as last,

but younger,
child-like,

wanting to caress.
I search for you

among the tall grass
and bright flowers.

I recall
your last words,

final hours.

Abela sits on the balcony
she likes the sun
the way the sun
glows her skin

I am inside
reading my book
sipping my wine

why don't you come outside
on the balcony
and feel the sun?
she says

I turn a page
sip more wine
I prefer the shade
the coolness

still reading that book?

I like books

but that book?
What's it about?

It's a philosophy book

I’m out here
on this balcony
on holiday
getting some sun
and you are inside
reading a ****
philosophy book?

It's relaxing

you can read
on a rainy day
come get some sun

I look at her
out on the balcony
in her bikini
her legs crossed
her dark glasses
like  insect eyes

I hate sitting
in the sun
it gives me a headache
and I feel it
a waste of time
I say

she looks towards me
we spent yesterday
walking around old ruins
that was a waste of time
she says

that was good
I say

old bricks
old windows
old relics?
she says
almost
in a sing song voice

I look at the hotel room wall
some water colour painting
hangs there
dull as dirt

I sip my wine
and close the book
and go lay
on the double bed
shoes off
shirt open at the neck
thinking of *** of course
thinking of her
laying there
as had
the night just gone

and she outside
singing some
**** love song.

It's been two years
since Baruch saw Yehudit
for the first time
on the school bus

that long
since that first kiss
that Christmas
under that moon

and stars
now as she turns
from the window
she says

what time will your mother
be home?
about 50 minutes
he says

on the bus?
yes on the bus
he answers
she stands there naked

the sunlight coming
over shoulders
and lighting up
her brown hair

she looks at him
lying there on the bed
hands behind his head
he searches her eyes

the blueness of them
the heaviness
of her *******
the love bites

the peasantness
the broadness of hips
have we time for more?
she asks

maybe
he says
she moves to the bed
and climbs up beside him

and lays her head
on his chest
I would never have dreamed
of this last year

she says
she kisses his stomach
lips damp warm
he strokes her shoulder

runs a finger
along her spine
she giggles
kisses him more

what would your mother say
if she found us thus?
he asks
don't think of it

she says
she lies beside him
he kisses her breast
softly

slowly
she turns towards him
runs a finger
down his thigh

he senses her movement
she imagines her mother
coming up the stairs
the heavy stomp

the booming voice
a smacking hand
she lies on her back
senses his movement

she embraces him
her hands knotted
behind him
he hears the dog bark

downstairs
he freezes
what's up?
she asks

earlier bus
he replies
he slips from the bed
and runs to the window

his mother is walking up
the road from the bus stop
quick
he says

she's coming
who?
she says
lying there

with a vacant stare
my mother's coming
quick dress
out the back door

the space of time
the movement of bodies
his mother's slow pace
towards the house

the dog barking louder
semi clothed
Yehudit runs with items
out the back door

with Baruch behind
along the back path
by orchard and logs
out the back gate

she in front
clutching shoes
and stockings
he watching

as he runs
her peasant body
swaying
like a mighty ship

on perilous seas
and storing away
as he runs
everything he sees.

Milka sits in the park.
Milka has a mood.
She stares ahead
with eyes

sharp as razors;
her hands either side
of her on the grass.
I sit beside her.

I look at her
staring ahead.
My hands are
around my knees.

Her eyes are icy;
one could freeze in them.
Nearly caught us
that time,

she says.
Nearly being
the operative word,
I say.

Her words
have an edge to them;
one could slit
a throat on them.

Her mother nearly
caught us at it.
We were in her room.
We were on her bed.

Door opening
and closing down stairs.
Kids ride by
on their bikes.

Small kids
with goofy smiles.
Milka stares at them.
Milka follows them

along the grass
with her icy eyes.
I remember her panic
in her eyes

as we heard the sounds
of her mother in the kitchen.
Milka dressing in haste.
Milka hopping

on one leg.
I dressed in a trance.
Sounds seeming nearer.
A guy walked by

with his dog.
The dog had out
a long pink tongue.
White teeth sharp

as Milka's eyes.
God knows what
if she'd caught us,
Milka says.

Mm-mm,
I say.
Laughter near by.
A group of girls

giggling like geese.
One girl wears jeans.
Her **** holds it well.
Flushed as a slapped face

Milka having dressed
waited for me
at the door of her room.
Sounds from the kitchen.

Her mother busy.
The sun warms us.
White clouds overhead.
I smell her perfume.

She breathes heavy.
Moody as blues.
The girl in tight jeans
has gone into the duck

pond area out of sight.
Milka sighs.
Milka looks at me.
I think she

believed you,
Milka says.
She does you.
Butter wouldn't

she thinks
in your mouth.
Three boys kick ball
across the way.

Milka studies me.
I look at the boys
at their game.
Tidying my room

with me,
Milka says,
she believed that
because of you

and that you said it.
It had been
a close thing.
It had been close.

My pecker stiff
in my jeans
as I spoke to her mother.
Her mother smiled.

Her mother said
it needed tidying.
I liked her mother's smile.
Warm and cosy

as a mother's love.
Cosy and warm
as a hat on a head.
Milka says,

nearly made it
in my single bed.

Mrs Murphy’s third child
Died in her arms. She never
Forgot the feel and hold,
The warmth still there;
The curly hair just beginning
Would grow no more; the eyes
Closed as if in sleep; the lips
Half open imitating half smile,
Small fists semi open gesturing
Welcome incomplete. She would
Not forget; not the looking down
And seeing that; not the taking
Away after the final hold.

You have others to look after
And care for, they said, meaning
Well maybe, but not understanding,
That a baby lost is a loss with no
Compensation, no matter if more
Followed and came from her womb
And lived and grew, she’d always
Remember the one she lost, that
Never grew, that never ******,
Or opened eyes, or smiled,
Or walked or gripped
Her hand: the lost one;
The third one; the lost child.

Coming of spring over the fields
she sitting there in the tall grass

talking of the effects of art on the
human mind and fragile heart and

you sitting there beside her your
hand near hers as it lay there and

you half listening to her words while
taking in a glimpse of thigh showing

where her skirt rides high out of the
corner of your eye and she saying

without the essence art life would be
a mistake and you lean forward and

kiss her neck sensing the softness of
skin the smell of sweet scent wishing

Rubens or Renoir could capture her
with brush and oils and by stretched

canvas held with the coming of spring
in this green field where songbirds sing.

I sat next to Anne
on the lawn
by the round white table
after breakfast

she was rubbing
the stump of her leg

I ate my toast

Sister Bridget
came over to us

what was all the fuss
last night?
she asked Anne
staring at her
with stern eyes

my leg hurt

your leg has been amputated
there is no leg
the nun said

it still hurts
even if it isn't
****** there
Anne said

language
I will not have
bad language
the nun said

I said ******
that's not a swear word
I should know
I’m an expert
in foul language
Anne said

you did not
have to make such a fuss
you woke up
the other children
in the dormitory
and Sister Elizabeth said
you used
foul language then

Anne shifted in the chair
rubbed her stump

I finished my toast
gazed at them both

it hurts here too
Anne said
raising her skirt
to reveal the stump

put your skirt down
the nun said firmly
Benedict doesn't want
to see your stump

I looked away
carrying the sight
of her stump with me

he doesn't mind
he's always gawking
at my leg
Anne said

enough of that
the nun said

that's what I tell him
but he doesn't listen
Anne said
poking me
in the ribs smiling

I don't
I said
looking at the nun
with my Mr Innocent features

I suggest young lady
you go to see Sister Agnes
about some painkillers
for the pain
the nun said
avoiding looking at me

I will
Anne said

and better manners my girl
the nun said
and walked off
across the lawn

silly old crab
Anne said
here give me your hand
and she shoved my hand
on her stump
and rubbed it
back and forth

I tried to pull
my hand away
but she held it there

don't fuss so Kid
take it as
the pleasure it is

I watched the nun stop
over by the slide
and talk to two other kids
sensing my hand moving
over warm skin

if the old bat saw this
Anne said
she'd call it
a ****** sin.

But I know
she said

that you love me
and you were sitting

by the pond
you with that cheap fishing rod  

which caught nothing
and she sitting there

her hands over her knees
gazing at the still surface

even if you don’t
say it often

she added
laying her chin

on her knees
her green skirt

just above her knees
and you caught

a glimpse of her thighs
where the skirt rose up

I do you love
you said

holding the rod
between hands

it’s just I don’t see the need
to keep on saying it

you added  
stretching your eyes

to go as far
as they could

to get a better look
and she said

why do you come here
to fish when you catch

nothing except a cold
in the neck

and stiff joints
and do you want a smoke?

She pulled out
a pack of cigarettes

and you let a hand free
from the rod

and took one
and she put one

between her lips
and lit it with a pink

plastic lighter
then lit yours

and you both
inhaled and exhaled

the smoke rising
over the pond

seeming to sit there
in the still air

and she said
between drags

I do know you love me
I can feel it

in my bones
and in my tingling

flesh at night
as I lay abed

and you thought
of that image

knowing her mother
would be about

the house
with her stern features

and sharp tongue
and beady eyes

but the image was good
you thought

sitting there beside her
in silence

with the drifting smoke
over the pond

and her hand
touching you

and the sky
turning from

dull grey
to a soft blue.

Waiting’s worse. She knows it.
That old feeling known since
childhood. Then it was the parent,
the heavy hand, the punishment.

This is like it, but not like it. She
waits for him to come home. His
footfalls in the hall, his voice along
the passage. To gauge the tone,

the loud or softness. She sits, waits.
Be prepared, the mother said,
years back.  The clock in the hall
sounds loud with its tick tock. Puts

hands between the thighs, anxiety
bites. For better for worse, the
vows said.  Bruises like medals,
black eyes as reminders, a colour

ranging from black and blue to green
to brown or whatever it is. She *****
an ear. Him? Maybe. The last time
it was she’d been seen with some

feller. She’d not of course. But it suited
as an excuse. She’d lost the baby by
the fall down stairs. What was that
all about? Was that the time she had

been late with his dinner? Or was that
some other? Baby’d be walking now.
Missed the first steps, the first word,
the live birth. Is that him? She bites a

finger nail. Feelings seem to run along
the nerves. What to say? What words?
The door opens along the hall, his voice
echoes mildly, we shall wait, we shall see.

From where you sit
In the window,
You have a good

View of the street
Even through the
Net curtain, though

You doubt he’ll turn
Up, in fact you’re
Certain. He’s gone

Off before; left
Once for three weeks,
But he came back

Then, but you doubt
We will again.
This time he seemed

So convincing;
His words were so
**** right rude and

Offensive, the
Blue eyes of him
Almost burnt you

Through. But you sit
Anyway, sit
With arms folded,

Eyes glued, ready
To cry at the
Least thing, big tears

Waiting just on
The eye’s rims like
Held back black rains.

You bite your lips
In turn, peer through
The nets of white,

Feel your *** numb,
Your legs ache, sense
The need to ***,

But you still wait.
The frailty
Of most human

Relations and
Conversations;
Love so fragile,

So dark deep, so
****** shallow,
Not enough to

Keep, but plenty
Enough for your
Sorrow. He’ll be

Back an inner
Voice says, be back
In no time, tail

Between his thighs;
No he won’t some
Other voice cries.

Still you sit and
Watch and wait and
Remember past

*****, promises
And kisses; it’s
Always the best

Times one recalls,
The last kiss and
Hold one misses.

Yes, there were flowers and wreaths,
Black dresses, suits, and ties,
And you were shown the place
Where she would lie beside those
She never knew, beneath a stone
Like so many others, the words
Would be chiselled, the flowers placed,

The prayers said, the visitations frequent,
At least at first, but there was that element
Of unrealness of it all, like a surreal painting
Or play, as if all were small bit actors
In some awkward part, genuine in their grief,
In the hurt and loss felt, in the agony
Of the one lost, but feeling it odd,

That she, whom all had loved,
And seemingly blessed by her God,
Should be one moment here and full of life
And laughter, but then be silenced,
Struck dumb, have eyes closed, ears sealed
And stuffed, her limbs stiffened, her hands
Cold and still no longer to hold or bless

Or caress or heal, her heart no more to beat
Or feel, her brain no more to think
Or be the home of thought, and those
Features that all remembered well
In her face, should be gone, and only
Memories left to fill some small part
Of that emptiness within, that huge dark space.

We lean on the balcony
looking down
on the Square;
it's a summer evening,
light still,
kids playing
by the pram sheds,
on up and down the *****
on their scooters or bikes.

Fay smells of flowers;
her fair hair let loose
about her slim shoulders;
I sniff her secretly.

My father's away,
she says,
he'll be back
on Saturday.

Where's he gone?

Business in Scotland;
he said I was to learn
Chapter six
of St John's Gospel.

Why?

Just his way
of making sure
I don't waste too much
time on earthly things.

Will you learn it?

I will have to;
he'll test me
when he gets back
and if I haven't
there will be trouble,
he said.

I see two kids fighting
over by the pram sheds;
a crowd gathers.

Don't your parents
make you read the Bible?

No, my old man
wouldn't know
the first thing
about the Bible;
he thinks it's all
a load of tosh,
but my mother says
we should go to church
and sometimes we do,
especially
the Bible-thumpers
by the iron bridge
who take poor kids
to the beach
in the summer
and they have feast night
with bread
and cakes and such.

Fay looks at me;
her eyes have
a sadness about them
like a puppy
left out
in the rain.

The nuns say
that those who
do not believe
will go to Hell.

Be quite
a packed place, then.

I believe,
but I want you
to believe, too,
she says.

Believe what?

In Jesus and God.

I watch a tall kid
ride his bike
by a couple
and shout
KAZOO!
as he passes them by.

I do believe.

You do?

Sure why not?

She smiles.

I would kiss
Miss A's backside
for a smile like that,
but I don't tell Fay;
I just look
at the brightness
of her eyes
where stars
are born
and an old star dies.

The old monk
limps into Vespers,

his black robes hang
to one side

like an old ship's sails
blown in a harsh wind.

I inhale the smell
of fresh baked bread

and stale bricks
in the afternoon cloister;

she had kissed me
and opened up

like a young blossom
in sharp Spring.

Dom Charles,
bespectacled,

reads from the life
of Mary Tudor,

as the monks ate
in the refectory;

queen's tale
and ****** story.

I’ll not get over George,
Alice said, not manage
to get him out of my skin
or memory. Her psychiatrist

said she might. ****. Her
word. Heard it someplace.
Not sure where. No, George
she misses. Known him for

years, ever since the work
house closed and they were
dumped in some home for
homeless.  He was partially

blind, saw badly, spoke in
a jumble of words. But she
was drawn to him; first out
of pity, then deeper out of

love. Possible, her psychiatrist
said, love may help whatever
it is. ****. Her word. Heard
it somewhere, not sure where.

She kissed George first; then
he kissed her. Each carried the
work house haunting with them.
Young staff at the home for the

homeless, smirked, spoke behind
their hands. George seeing her
poorly imagined her better maybe,
she didn’t care, at least he was

kissing her and he was right there.
Once they almost did it, but
George fumbled and they lost
concentration. And they gave

that up as a bad job. Best not to,
her psychiatrist said. ****. Her word.
Heard it someplace, not sure where.
Then George died; stiff in bed, his not

hers, heart gave out, the doctor said,
poor Alice, loved mostly, cared much,
all gone, not wed, she alone, missing
George, in her single noisy spring bed.

You want to see him
Now? The receptionist
Asked. Yes, this minute,
You replied. What’s it

About? None of your
Concern. I think I need
To know before I can
Interrupt him. You need

To know jackshit. There
Was a staring of eyes.
Hesitation. A looking
Down at the phone, a

Scratching of forehead
Dislodging flakes of dry
Skin. Is it that important?
Maybe you could give

Me some idea what you
Need to see him about?
***, you mutter. ***?
Yes, he came around

To my place last night
And after a real good
Session lasting until
The small hours he up

And left without so
Much as a goodbye kiss
Or whispered word. That
Right? Yes, you said. I’ll

Get him right away, I
Wanted to know where
The heck my husband
Was last night and now

I know. Are you sure
Want to see him now?

(2010 POEM)

You’re the boy
from near the farm
aren’t you?

Jane asked
standing by
the school bus

after school
had finished
for the day

yes
you replied
yes I am

and you wanted
to say more
but your tongue

dried up
as if stuck
in some desert

someone said
you’re new there
she added

looking at you
with her pale blue eyes
a few months

you said
taking in
her smooth skin  

how dark her hair
how straight
and touching over

her shoulders
you ventured words
are you

the parson’s daughter?
she nodded
rather than spoke

her reply
then looked away
as other kids

came towards
the school bus
and stood back

as they climbed aboard
their noisy voices
drowning out

the ambience
of her being there
like big guns of war

breaking through
the peacefulness
of a pre-war dawn

and you waited for her
to speak again
but she looked back

at the school
as if the audience
granted you

had ended
and you stood there
waiting to board the bus

like all the rest
come on Jane
someone called

and she turned
and climbed aboard
leaving you to stand

and watch
the lifting
of her leg

the black shiny shoes
the white socks
the way her hands

pulled her up
the next step
and you savouring

each moment
of her motion
full of a love

like one
for a work of art
full of emotion.

Baruch met Yehudit
off the bus
it was her half day
off work

and they were going
to spend some time
alone together
as they used to

before they’d' left school
she still had
her work uniform on
and make up  

and her hair
was tidier
than it had ever been
can we go

to your place?
she asked
yes sure
the house is empty

until 3.20
she nodded
and they walked up
the road towards

the house
traffic rushing by
the sun warm
in the afternoon sky

hell of a day at work
she said
that manager
kept on at me

this is not how
we do it
he says
that is how

we do it
why is he
such a creep?
Baruch said

he thinks because
he's manager
he can get
girls to do things

but I always
put him straight
and he doesn't like it
that I don't let him

Yehudit said
report the  prat
Baruch said
a rook flew noiseilly

over head
she looked up
and down again
who would believe me?

I'm just a 15 year old kid
he’s a respected manager
been there
for 20 odd years

who are they
going to believe?
Baruch frowned
won't any

of the other girls
stick by you?
will they heck
most have slept

with him
they're not going
to show themselves up
as ****** are they?

she said
guess not
he said
they reached the house

and went in
the gate
and along the path
to the back door

and opened up
coffee or tea?
he asked
no

she said
let's not waste time
we only have
about 2 hours

so they went up
the stairs to his bedroom
and undressed
and got into bed

you ok with this?
he said
of course I am
she said

it's not you
I have a problem with
and besides
this is an expression

of my love
he kissed her
and she kissed
his neck

and he took in
her *******
the softness
the smoothness

as he ran his fingers
over them
and his pecker moved
and the room enclosed

and protected them
from the world outside
as they made love
the songs of birds

distant traffic
a ticking clock
her uniform
flung over

a chair
then they lay there
breathless
each moving

in a different world
breathing in
the same air
and on the bed post

hanging
her bright pink
flowered
underwear.

The water won’t really
Wash him away, but you
Try and now dry between
Toes. Thoughts of him
And what he did and said

Pollute your body and inside
Your head. An hour in the bath
Has not erased him at all, not
Undone him, not unfelt his
Fingers from your flesh.

The flesh tingles where
The brush scrubbed,
The pores hold onto his
Feel and touch, too imbedded,
All too much. You want him

Gone, want all of him to be
Sluiced away down the sink,
The down the drain, away
From you, with all his
Hurtfulness and all that pain.

You gaze down at your daughter, Camille, and lay your hand upon her body. She is asleep, resting after a long day, exhausted after the day with Boris at the Zoo, then the café in the park. You wish her father had been that affectionate, had taken the time to be with her, been interested enough to want to be with her and you, but he wasn’t, just other women, other things to occupy his life and mind. You stroke her rib cage; how thin she seems; not a bit like her father, not one ounce of him in her that seems apparent. You gaze at her hair, at the features that you can see, she takes after you, it’s in her face and eyes. Even her temperament is yours, you feel, and are glad, rather than her father’s moroseness, and cruelty. If you had taken you mother’s advice you would never have married Paterson, never have let his hands or lips near you, let alone marry the ****. He’ll be no good, for you, Mavis, she had warned on your wedding eve. You never listened; never took note; you knew best you thought. Marry in haste, relent in leisure, you father had said, in that voice that made you want to hit him, but you never did, although he had hit you many a time as a child, even for the most trivial of things. Dead now, preaching to some other crowd now, wherever he is. You smile at Camille’s sleeping face. Picture of innocence. Like you as a child, you guess. But there had been no Boris in your mother’s life; just your father and his preaching and teaching and moaning and sitting at the table with his long hangdog features and the cane by his hand ready for punishments. You remember creeping into your parents one night as a child and hearing the most awful noises in the dark; like your mother were being strangled or beat up upon, you raced from the room, hid under your blankets in case you father should come and get you. Camille came into you room last month as you and Boris were making love, her voice knifed you, so that you and Boris fell apart like some circus act gone wrong. She had wanted a glass of water, her small voice echoing through the dark, Boris and you panting, going all frigid as if death had claimed. Boris lay smiling in the dark, as you went, took Camille by her hand, fetched her water, lay her back to bed and to sleep. Now she sleeps again. Picture of innocence. Angel of your life. Your precious. Your daughter.

You can’t get the stink
Of the hospital
Out of your mind, that
Aspect haunts as
Much as the mindless
***** (who handed
You your dead baby)
Who had icy eyes
And a hint of so what
Written there framed by
The blonde hair, the blue

Eyes and all around
Inside your head the
Buzz of flies. You can’t
Get the colour scheme
Out of your turned back
Memory, the walls
And doors and window
Frames, the nurses and
Doctor’s faces a
Whirl and buzz, and you
Holding onto your

Dead baby’s name there
Amongst discarded
Other names, wanting
The hold to last, to
Feel the soft parcel,
To want her then to
Open eyes, to breathe,
To prove them wrong, to
**** them in their chilled
Cosiness. You can’t
Get the baby out

Of your hurt mind, can’t
Forget the last hug,
The wanting for her
To cling on, to take
Your dug and **** and
****, but she never
Did, never moved, not
Opened eyes; that’s when
It aches the more, that’s
What brings the deep cries.

Lizbeth lies
on her bed
after returning
from seeing Benny

in the small hamlet
outside town
she lies and fumes
and muses on the day

Benny talking
of birds of prey
and all she wanted
was for him

to have her
although she knew
it'd be a waste
of effort

but she thought maybe
he might weaken
if she tried enough  
and wore her

shortest skirt and such
but no
all talk of birds
and butterflies

and his
****** queen
from school
on his mind

as they walked
no doubt
worth an effort
she muses

maybe one day
he may
downstairs her mother
plays the radio

some classical stuff
her mother's
croaking voice
attempting

a Schubert song
the bed is soft
the pillow holds
her head

she pretends
Benny's there
closes her eyes
imagines its his fingers

touching her now
not hers
his fingers
lifting the skirt

his finger and thumb
lowering
her underwear
the Schubert song

is done
her mother's croak
is silent
some other

composer's music
fills the air
up from the stair
she wants it to be him

not her
his fingers not hers
its not the same
despite the pretence

her fingers stop
and lay by her side
and she opens
her eyes

with no
pretended ride.