My old man
took me
to the West End

it was evening
bright lights
from shops
and theatres
and such

I was dressed
in my best suit
my old man in his

a handkerchief
tucked in
my top pocket

my hair Brylcreemed
flat and tidy

we going
to see a film?
I asked

no we're going
to the amusement arcades
spend a penny or so
then have a drink
some place

see who's about
sometimes
you can see
a film star
here at night
in between shows
he said

I nodded
and gazed about me
usually we saw
a movie
took in some
old chestnuts
from a stall
on the roadside

once he took me
to some café
which sold pan cakes
and I ate them
with a sauce

we walked
the bright streets
he at my side
I taking in
all I saw
people passing
all different faces
and shapes

and then
there she was
Billie Whitelaw
I’d seen her
in a film or two
she was standing
between two guys
in suits

she looked at me
as I looked at her
then she was gone
in the crowd

and I said
to my old man
seen her

seen who?
he said

that actress

what actress?

Billie Whitelaw

huh?

she was just there
with two guys
walking along
in a white dress
I think
coat like fur

where is she now?
he said
peering about him

gone into the crowd
I said

he gazed
into the bright lit street
like some pilgrim
who had just
missed Christ
going by

he looked dumbfounded

I looked at the sky
don't know why.

Ole-
I want to run
my finger

along the outline
of your jaw.
I was there

when they broke it
years before.
I was there as it mended-

jaw framed, wired,
Stoic, you did not complain,
wrapped up and put away

deep within, the pain.
Now-
Ole, I grieve,

am grieving;
then, as the jaw mended,
I crept down the stairs

to your bed to see
if you were well
and still breathing.

Nadav had rough skin
when he touched
it was like sandpaper
rubbing flesh

girls have a habit
of boring me
to tears
he said

I looked
at Miss Ashdown's
broad behind
as she walked down

the aisle between desks
in class
her skirt swayed
like old ship's sails

all they talk of
is dolls and prams
and doll's clothes
and about whom

they'll marry
one day
I wondered
if Miss Ashdown's hips

wore away the wood
at the side
of the desks
as she walked

between them
I prefer boy's talk
of guns and battles
and wars and such

he said
I watched
as Miss Ashdown
turned and faced

the front of the class
her big bust
like battleship guns
do you like girl's talk?

Nadav asked
I like their gentleness
and softness
and smell of flowers

I said
but talk?
he said
what of that?

the knack
I said
is to listen
only to the last

few words of speech
to get the drift
of talk
Miss Ashdown

glared at Nadav
and threw
skill fully
chunks of chalk.

Anne rubs
her leg stump
sometimes it's

very hot
and itches
other times

it throbs hard
with the pain
that's how it

is again
so she rubs
the leg stump

and looks at
other kids
on the lawn

of the home
for the sick
some playing

on the swings
or the slide
some sitting

at tables
playing games
on game boards

but she's stuck
sitting there
in a chair

with one leg
and one stump
itching bare

then a nun
who's nursing
says to her

cover up
your leg stump
and don't rub

or you will
make it sore
but Anne

being she
says up yours
lifts her skirt

and rubs her
stump some more.

A French monk wipes
the shell of an egg
on the serge of black.

He walks slowly
in sandaled feet
across the cloister,
his shadow following
close behind.

I pick apples
from the apple trees
in the abbey orchard,
my fingers twisting
as I'd be shown

-she mouthed
my fingers
one by one,
******* them
to a strawberry ripeness-

Dom Leo takes
the breviary
from the shelf
beside his hip,
opens to the right page,
eyes scanning
the script

- I watched her
as she slowly stripped.

Elaine got off
the school bus
following her younger sister
not sure if John

was on the bus
or not
she didn't look
although she had been

tempted many times
to look about her
but she just stared
out the window

at the passing view
listening to others
talking and laughing
wondering if John

was there
and if he had been
looking at her
she walked on

by the school fence
her sister went off
with a friend
into the girls' playground

she looked
at her shoes
scuffed
black

her white
ankle socks
looking
now and then

at the passing feet
of others
not looking
but staring

waiting
for the school bell
to ring
can we still talk?

a voice asked
she looked up
John was standing there
with that quiff of hair

that hazel eyed stare
she blushed
and looked at him
talk about what?

she asked moodily
looking at his
loosely tied tie
anything

as long
as we can talk
he said
she didn't feel

like talking
or listening
but she did
she was in

such a depressed mood
that she thought that
any moment she
was going to cry

and she didn't want
him or others
to see her cry
she looked behind him

at passing girls
their hair
all arranged neatly
you're not going

to kiss me again
are you?
she said
he looked at her

then at her hair
not if you don't
want me to
he said

although at that moment
he wanted to
because he wanted
to make the oddness

of the day before right
to get them back
to some kind
of friendship again    

she wasn't sure
if she felt relieved or not
part of her
wanted him

to kiss her
to show others
that someone
did find her attractive

and that she wasn't
just a 14 year old
frump as others
called her

we can't talk now
she said
the bell will soon go
maybe lunch time

at recess?
he nodded
sure
he said

I’ll look out for you
O by the way
I saw a Jay yesterday
she looked at him

there was a small smile
on his lips
Jay?
she said

it's a bird
he said
don't see them often
but it was in

our garden briefly
O
she said
not knowing

what else to say
about a bird
I’ll show you
a picture

in my bird book
at recess
if you like
he said

she nodded
and a smile spread
on her lips
the book of birds

he kept in that
coat pocket of his
she thought
the school bell rang

and he said
see you later
and touched her hand
and was gone

she she sensed
his touch still there
warming moving along
her nerves

like a fire
opening up
a small unknown
deep down desire.

Sophia's parents
(Polish refugees
during WW2)  
have a large crucifix

above their double bed;
wooden, with a plaster cast
Christ whose features are dour,
some aspects chipped.

She enters the room;
a smell of staleness,
pipe smoke,
her mother's

old fashion scent.
She looks at the crucifix;
kneels on the bed,
and rubs the feet

of the plaster cast Christ;
remember the time
when her parents
were away for the day,

and she brought
that Benny boy in here
and they made love
on the bed,

she laying there,
tapping his buttocks
to ride him on;
looking up

at the features
of the dour Christ,
no change of expression;
Benny's fast breathing

hot by her ear,
the whole arena
somehow surreal,
lacking meaning,

a purposeless show.
After he'd done
and left
and she tidied up

and made the bed
and smoothed
the covers
and looked

at the Christ
the dourness
was still there,
but a sense

of disappointment
hung in the air.

The whole thing
about ***
Sophia said

is that it's so
liberating
it takes one
on a journey
of discovery
about oneself
and another

I watched her
brushing her hair
she was still in
her dressing gown

I sat on her bed
waiting for her
to get ready
to go out
after the ***
and her shower

I guess so
I said

light from a window
lit her up
with sunlight

she smelt
of bath oils

I had bathed after her
and I was dressed
and ready

the opening up
the release
of part of one
she said
the joining
with another

a Beethoven sonata
was playing
from her Hi-Fi

I liked it
it opened up
areas inside my head
mood changed me

of course animals
have *** more often
and they don't analyse
about it
I said

ah but we're
not animals
she said
least not all
there is that
part of us
which allows us
to analyse even
a good ****
she said

the word hung
in the air above
her head
like some
dark bird of fate

I gazed at her
brushing her hair
there her hand
and brush
her hair

I wanted
to have her
once more
or get out of there.

Jane climbed off
the Saturday bus to town

her black hair ruffled
by the wind

her eyes
looking over at you

her mother close by
you standing by the wall

having climbed from the bus
a few moments before

your mother stood
and spoke to others

you watched as Jane buttoned up
her coat against the winter cold

her fingers turning blue
then she moved over to you

and said
I saw you by the water tower last night

as we drove by
my father visiting

a parishioner in the village
I was watching the sun

moving beyond the Downs
you said

like some giant moving
away to sleep

she smiled
and surreptitiously

she touched your hand
her mother’s head

looking the other way
talking to your mother

of her husband’s work
of church or of weather

or whatever
you gazed at Jane’s eyes

the turn of head
the smile on lips

the way her hands touched
oh to be with her

away from others
to talk and walk

and capture each moment
with her closeness

but then her mother
moved away to shop

and Jane followed
just behind

and as she walked away
you painted her figure

and beauty
in your mind.

We lie there
on the grass
in the park
of St James

young Nima
and young me
both smoking
looking up
at the sky

you know what?
she utters
if I don't
get a fix
pretty soon
I'll dry out
be withered
like a nun's
******

you won't get
out of that
hospital
or get those
mind quacks off
of your case
if you get
more fixes
I tell her

I know that
my parents
tell me that
when they come
to visit
both doctors
of a kind

what about
having ***?
are you up
for a ****?
she says loud
disturbing
the wild ducks
near by us
and others
passing by

not right here
I tell her

of course not
some place else

what place else?

some hotel
some cheap joint
like we did
a month back

not today
getting late
you've to be
back in that
hospital
before long
I inform

she looks round
stares at me

can't go on
not like this
I'll go slit
my **** wrists
if I don't
get a fix
or a ****

she lies back
on the grass
cigarette
held aloft
like some young
movie star
in a role

I lie there
watching clouds
and birds fly
and thinking
of the ***
that we had
in that cheap
hotel room
on that bed
that made sounds
like migraine
in the head.

He folds the newspaper,
puts it down, lights up
a cigarette.  The papers

still feed the usual crap,
withhold the truth, Joe
Public never gets to see

the real, the underlying
**** beyond the print.
Wars, big or small, have

the same underlying truth,
not seen or known except
those at the front or on

the ground, or those, like
him, who’ve seen the crap
the big boys at the top relay.

Bill inhales, as the young
guy in the bed beyond sleeps.
One of the perks, a good ****,

no shortage when you know
who to call and who is in
the know.  His father had

the U.S. flag framed neat on
the wall, spouted proudly
the American Way, dreamed

of things improving, sky’s
the limit, he used to say, in
that slow John Wayne way.

Bill exhales, flicks ash, thinks
on the young guy asleep,
the naked arm on the cover,

eyes shut, tight ****. He thinks
on that young guy in East Berlin
he rubbed out, spy or such,

never ask, do the job, keep it
short and clean. He inhales deep,
the latest involvement overseas,

waste of time and lives, he muses,
take out the top guys let the ****
sheep fall after. He closes his eyes.  

He recalls the time JFK smiled at
him in passing, just before the hit,
the week after. All hush hush, lips

sealed, none spoke, rumours spread.
Men dead. A ***** game it all is, he
sighs, opens his eyes, all *******, all lies.

The coach had left Paris
and it was still dark
apart from street lights
and they became less

as we got
to the countryside
music was coming out
the coach radio

some Mozart
some French
radio station
Miriam sat next to me

her head slowly
resting on my shoulder
her curly red hair
tickling my cheek

she'd swapped with Bill
at the restaurant
in Paris
he sat with

some other guy
whom she's *******
beside her
music makes me sleepy

she said dreamily
don't mind me
resting on you
do you?

no sure
go ahead
I'd said
and she had

I thought of my mother
and her parting words
be careful
of your wallet

and your morals
and changed
your underwear
every day

I had my wallet
safety-pinned
in my coat pocket
and I changed

that morning
at the Dover B&B;
Miriam was nodding off
the slight sway

of the coach
meant she slowly
drifted into me
I saw her reflection

in the darkened
window beside me
her eyes closed
her mouth open

my shoulder
her rest
I studied
the pink

reflection cleavage
of her soft breast.

Baruch liked
Yehudit's eyes
the smile that lingered
waiting for her

seemed an eternity  
being with her
always seemed
too short a time

the walk
by the wood shed
the memory
of their first

smoke there
she almost choking
that first time
the path

through the woods
the trees tall
sky above
hardly seen

she by a tree
that time waiting
said she wanted to
but they didn't

not just yet
he said
the walk to the pond
warm weather

unlike that first time
when the frost
bit them
he waited

by the pond side
ducks swimming
disturbing
the water's skin

she lay once
beside him here
talked of ***
or what

she knew of it
what girls
at school said
what one girl

said it was like
he watched the ducks
smelt the weather's air
that first kiss

kisses followed
she and him
the moon shining
above them

he liked the way
she lay
on that bed
the sunlight

through the window
falling
on her *******
he watched the sky

through
the tall trees
clouds passing
he liked her hand

in his
warm pulsing
fingers touching
undoing

doing
waiting seemed
an eternity
he often said

playing out
the last kiss
inside
his morning time head.

It's snowing‭;
I can see it‭
through‭
the ward window,‭

drifting slow‭
and filling‭
the branches‭
of the trees,

and out there‭
in the fields about.‭
It looks surreal,‭
like it is being painted‭

as I watch.‭
Glad we're in here,‭
not out there in it,‭
Yiska says,‭

moving next to me‭
at the window.‭  
I can smell her perfume‭
or is it soap‭?

It has a kind‭
of fascination,‭
I say,‭
trying to imagine soldiers‭

on the Russian Front‭
knee deep‭
in to snow,‭
fingers freezing‭

to rifles,‭
feet so cold‭
they freeze off.‭
She says nothing‭;

looks at the fall of snow.‭
You have imagination,‭
I’ll give you that,‭
she says after a few minutes.‭

Some days I want‭
to just lie there‭
and become numb‭
in snow.‭

I read some place‭
soldiers froze‭
where they stood‭
like statues,‭

dead and white,‭
I add,‭ ‬looking at her‭
beside me,‭ ‬her hair‭
unbrushed,‭ ‬her pale‭

blue nightgown‭
hanging loose,‭
no belts or ties‭
allowed‭( ‬suicides‭

always possible‭)‬,‭
her eyes staring‭
outward.‭
If I could get out‭

of this locked ward,‭
I’d be out there,‭
looking for a place‭
to just lie,‭ ‬and go‭

to sleep,‭ ‬she says.‭
I imagine us both‭
laying there out‭
in the falling snow,‭

cold,‭ ‬freezing‭
waiting to go.

Elaine prepares for school
she slept bad
odd snap dreams
of John

but then
he was gone
she ties her
brown shoe laces

and has made
an effort
with her black hair
brushed it

into some kind
of style
(her younger sister
smirks)

her mother reties
her school tie
must look tidy
her mother says

can't have you
setting
a bad example
Elaine wonders

if John will be
on the school bus
and how
she will feel

if he is there
after yesterday
and the row
or whatever

it was
her mother
smiles at her
have a good day

she says
she and her sister
wait
for the school bus

to come
her sister talks
to others waiting
next to them

but all Elaine
can think of
is John
and if he

is on the bus
and will he
look out at her
when the bus stops?

the thought
of him staring
at her
from the bus window

makes her feel flushed
has she blushed?
she wonders
she fiddles

with her satchel strap
touches her hair
she sniffs
her mother's scent

she borrowed
not too much?
she sniffs again
where is the bus?

she breathes in deep
that kiss
began it all
that one kiss

and all this
the school bus
comes around
the corner

she tenses
her eyes look
at the ground
in case he's looking

at her
she becomes
self conscious
imagines him

staring at her
she senses
her body leak
as she climbs on board

behind a boy
with ginger hair
she wishes she
was elsewhere

not here
not anywhere
where he
can stare

she thinks
sitting in a seat
all emptied of self
staring at her feet.

YOU'VE GOT NITS!
Helen's mum
bellowed out

who've you been
locking heads
with at school?

Helen said
a girl's name
sit elsewhere

have to sit
where we're put
Helen cried

kneeling down
as her mum
combed her hair

with a comb
her mum sighed
I'm sorry

not your fault
her mum said
kissing her

daughter's tear
dampened cheek
Helen's hair

was washed with
Derbac soap
and her mum

combed her hair
through and through
then later

rinsed it through
and combed it
and combed it

what a stink
that stuff's got
her mum said

without her
spectacles
Helen was

almost blind
just a blur
of colours

and odd shapes
but the damp
kiss on cheek

would last her
long after
the Derbac
shampoo's reek.

She thinks of him
as she lies in bed,
thinks of his last visit,
that time he brought her

cigarettes and chocs
and the tubby nurse said
it's not good for you all
these things , and Nima

had said is *** good for me?
the tubby nurse said
everything in its place,
and Nima had said show

me the place. She ought to
be up and dressed but
she can't be ****** or so
it seems in her mind, so it

seems if she can't have
her fix and can't go out
until the quacks say so.
Benedict has said he will

come like he came that
day for the first time and
she was so unaware that
he'd get there, but he did,

turned up and the nurse said,
you've got a visitor, she
thought her parents had
decided to come after all,

but it was Benedict standing
in the doorway holding
cigarettes and a wide smile.
She looks at a nurse passing by,

thinks of being up and out,
seeing Benedict in London,
but no, the quacks say not
until we've fixed the fix craving

as if...and that time he and
she had had a quickie in that
side room and smiles and lies
with eyes closed dreaming of

that time, supping on it in colour
and all like a small picture show,
and she watches it move on and go.

Yiska gobbed
on the window pane
in the locked ward.

I stood next to her
and gazed out
the window.

Snow was on the fields
and on the tops of trees.

She smelt
of carbolic soap.

The spittle dripped down
the glass pane.  

Couldn't sleep,
Yiska said.

Bad dream?

Each day
is a bad dream.

A rook disturbed snow
on a tree top.

What doesn't **** us,
I said.

Turns us mad,
she said.

Makes us stronger,
I read some place.

Are we stronger?

Slow snow flakes
drifted by the window.

She wiped the spittle
with the sleeve
of her long
purple night gown.

I don't dream
of him any more,
she said,
don't dream
of the ****.

The word hung
in the air about us
like an angry bee.

What do you
dream about?
I asked.

The church,
the altar, people
watching me
in my white dress,
but not of him.

Has your mind
shut him out?

Hope so.

The snow fell harder.
Black birds
took flight
into the grey dawn.

What do you
dream about?
She asked.

A bell rope,
a tower,
ticking clock.

She sighed.
Her small ****
seemed stiff
in the dawn light.

Have you stopped
slitting your wrist?

So far.

That hanging attempt
had those nurses
******* themselves
with panic.

I recalled the face
of a nurse
mouthing words
through the small panel
of glass that evening.

Someone
turned on the radio.

The night nurse
gazed at us
by the window.

We saw her reflected
in the window
as if in a mirror.

Plump in her uniform,
her dark hair
tied in a bun.

Yiska moved away
leaving her carbolic perfume
on the air like
a disturbed memory.

I just continued
to vacantly stare.

I don’t know why you would want to bring those
Types of women into this house Mr
Myner I really don’t it’s not as if

I’m a prudish kind of woman because
I’m not but I have to consider my
Other paying guests who have a rather

Different take on life and who don’t want
To open their doors to those kind of women
Or hear the kind of things I heard last night

And the language Mr Myner I have
Never heard such language in my life and
The type of things those women wear or in

Some cases don’t wear and the make up my
Gosh they look like clowns Mr Myner look
Like regular clowns and the way they look

At me when I complain and they always
Go to your room it’s always your door they
Go to I’ve watched them as is my right to

Keep an eye open to the things going
On and of course I have to take into
Account and consider the welfare of

The bed in that room because after what
I heard last night I’d be surprised if there
Are any springs left on the bed and I’m

Not a rich woman I have only quite
Limited funds and I can’t go around
Replacing beds every time you decide

To bring home here those types of women or
Encourage them to come to your room
And Mrs Tarnshower paused and looked at

Herself in the mirror and said that’s what
I‘ll tell him next time he comes in with those
Kinds of women yes sir I will amen.

We stopped at some café
just outside Paris
the coach parked
along side the road

our first meal
since getting on
the ferry across over
I still had

that Beethoven
piano piece
in my head
and Miriam

laying her head
on my shoulder
in sleep
her red hair

like an explosion
of redness
her eyes closed
her mouth ajar

small white teeth
shallow breathing
small cleavage
what are you having?

Miriam asked
I looked at the menu
in French
you speak French?

I asked
not much
apart what I learnt
at school

she said
she scanned the menu
I think that's beef burger
she said

pointing at the list
that's egg and something
and curry?
I asked

don't know French
for curry
she said
she raised her hand

Garçon!
she said
a thin guy
came across

with a droopy moustache
and looked at us
you do curry?
she asked

the guy gave
a blank gaze
she fanned her mouth
with her small hand

and lifted her eyes
towards the ceiling
and blew outward
curry

she mouthed
the guy looked at me
sympathetically
I poked a finger

at the list randomly
and the guy
looked intently
I showed 2 fingers

and pointed
to Miriam and me
he smiled
and went off

what did you order?
she said
looking at me
then the menu

God knows
but at least
we'll eat
I said

she shook her head
and stared back
towards the bar  
how about a beer?

she said sure
I said
and as we waited
I felt her hand

on my knee
making
circular motions
and giving

the occasional squeeze  
and I hoped
she'd do the same
to both knees.

It rained
and Janice and I
stood under
the railway bridge

in Arch Street
with the coal wharf
on the left
the bomb site

on the right
the cobbled road
shining with the rainfall
horse drawn

coal wagons waiting
for the sacks
to be filled
a weak sun overhead

how long
will it last?
Janice asked
don't know

I said
looks like it's here
for a while
she looked up

at the darkening sky
Gran will be angry
if I’m late for lunch
she said

you have a choice
I said
go and get wet
but be on time

for lunch
but then Gran
will be angry
if I get my clothes wet

she said
well there you go
I said
what do you want

to get told off
for getting wet
or being late?
Janice ******* up

her nose
and put out a hand
to feel how
wet it was

it's quite heavy
she said
what shall I do?
either way

you'll get scolded
I said
she stood
with her hands

enfolding her arms
as if she were cold
I could come with you
I said

and explain
to your gran
Janice looked uncertain
what will your mother say

if you're late for lunch
or if you get wet?
she asked
nothing much

she’s used to me
getting wet
or being late
I said

the rain
came down harder
the sky got darker
the horses

on the wagons
became unsettled
let's go
I said

let's run
let's see
what happens
and so I took

her hand
and we ran out
into the pouring rain
through puddles

of water
over the cobbles
the rain soaking
into our clothes

and hair
her hand
still in mine
damp and slippery

getting
wet wet wet
I thinking
of what's for lunch?

and she thinking
of getting scolded
or spanked
I bet.

Four monks,
black robed,
stood on the beach

in the grounds
of the abbey.
I sat and listened

to the old words
of Father John:
it isn’t easy

living amongst
so many men
from different backgrounds,

with different personalities,
he said
An old clergyman

cross over,
Father Joe
later said.

The young monk,
bespeckled,
crossed over

from the cloister door,
genuflected,
looked at me,

then went
on tip toe
seeming
to the bell tower

to ring
for the office
of Compline.

After asking a nurse
where he was
we find Ole at the end
of the ward
sitting on the side
of a bed
attempting to eat
a sandwich.

He is puffed up,
his hands swollen,
his arms too;
his face looks puffy.

I am shocked how much
he had altered overnight.

What's happened to you?
Has anyone seen you
like this?

He shrugs his shoulders,
looking at us.

I take his free hand
and feel it with mine.

It must be water retention;
when did you urinate last?

Early this morning, I think.

You ought to have
a catheter in
to get rid
of the excess *****.

Have they suggested that?

He has a job breathing;
his words are  soft
and yet strained.

No, but I did see
a doctor this afternoon.

What did he say?

They're investigating.

He labours for breath;
puts the sandwich down
on the small bed table;
sips the orange juice.

Stay here,
I say to his sister.

I go off down the ward
and find a nurse
in a dark uniform
who looks like
she may be in charge.

Yes? She says,
looking at me
as if I’d just walked
through dog's doings.

I'm not happy with the way
my son's being care for.

Who's your son?

I tell her.

What's the problem with him?

You should be telling me that;
he's all puffed up and swollen;
he can barely hold
a glass to drink;
his breathing is bad,
could be asthma-
he’s suffered that for years;
and why hasn't he got
a catheter in
to take away
the excess *****?
he had a job passing
***** yesterday;
I assume that's what
the letter said
we brought in
yesterday evening.

I can't put a catheter in
without a doctor's say so
and he is in A&E;
at the moment
they're having a rush.

But my son needs to see
someone soon;
he can’t go on like this.

I assure you he is
being cared for,
but as soon
as the doctor returns
from A&E;
I will ask him
to see your son.

It's upsetting
to see him like that;
he's not one to complain;
but that's no reason
to let him be as he is.

I will get a doctor to see him
as soon as he returns,
she reiterates.

I am fuming;
the whole ward
seems to have
a dark circle about  it.

I've just been to the nurse
to complain
about your treatment
or lack of,
I say.

His sister looks at me
then at Ole.

I'm going to sit
in the waiting area;
I can't stand seeing you
in this state,
she says.

She walks down
the ward upset
and then out of sight.

I look at him sitting there;
I sit beside him
on the side of the bed
and put my arm around
his broad shoulders.

The abandoned sandwich
he puts back in the packet.

Want some more orange juice?

He nods.

I pour him a glassful
of orange juice
which he drinks down
in silence.

I ask him various
mundane questions
about how he slept
and the hospital food
and did he eat any.

A little; it hurts my jaw
to move it too much.

I ask him if he wants anything
else to eat or drink,
he says no.

He tries to lay down
on the bed
so I help him
the best I can
to sit back
and arrange his pillows
so that they
are behind him comfortably.

He lays there;
his breathing heavy.

I ask a few more questions
which he answers slowly.

He closes his eyes, tired.

I best go;
leave you to rest.

He opens his eyes.

I'll be up tomorrow
and bring more clothes
and stuff.

Ok.

I kiss his forehead;
touch his arm
and go back
along the ward.

The last conversation
between father and son;
death hanging
by the door.

I can say no more.

He swam
in the sea
of her moistness-
warm waves,

tide on tide,
her fingers,
shark like,
set about

his flesh as
of fish; -
who else
could swim

as such?
he recalled
the *******
hot finger tips

of her love,
the way
they dived
into waves

of oncoming
passions;
you-
you,

my young love,
he said,
I the youth,
diving, deep,

breath held,
eyes closed.
Where are you now,
my long ago love?

He asked,
in what waters
do you now dive?  
Or are you

in Davy Jones' Locker?
Or are you still alive?

Frankie folds
her hankie
into neat

triangles
he watches
how fingers

so nimble
can also
form tight fists

for defence
yet these hands
so often

caress him
bring him on
to the point

Frankie wipes
her thin lips
why are you

looking so
Johnny boy?
She asks him

O nothing
just thinking
(on how she

manages
to hold his
young pecker

so gently)
about what?
He smiles some

boyish smile
bet I know
what's on that

mind of yours
Johnny boy
what is that?

He answers
taking in
her peach like

******* beneath
orange cloth
*** of course

all you think
about's that
no you're wrong

I wasn't
he replies
so what then?

My beauty?
My fine teeth?
My long hair?

Your fingers
how nimble
they perform

simple tasks
(how nimble
caressing

his body
her fingers
running down

his back bone)
you liar
Johnny boy

you're thinking
of that night
we made love

and my hands
potter's hands
brought you up

like fine clay
to the point
of hotness

guess you're right
those fingers
I could ****

each one so
that's enough
Johnny boy

time for school
keep it cool
keep it cool

and they walk
sulkily
to lessons

on history
about war
and bloodshed

but he wants
to make hot
love instead.

Hard to put into words
the extent of grief.

No cavalry of relief in sight
coming over the hill.

You, my son, those
last days, so ill.

Unlike you,
you soldier like
in life's fight.

Death took you unaware
that night
and again
the day after.

No present mirth,
no laughter,
no Shakespearean drama
set in tow,
no Chekhov way
with words,
no Ibsen dark talk,

just this, these words,
and a blown from palm kiss.

Silent words:
we love and miss.

Lizbeth stares
at her hands

opened up
palms upward

lines across
the skin where

Benedict
had held her

his palm there
squeezing tight

holding on
puts fingers

to her lips
where he kissed

his moisture
there somewhere

wanted more
more of him

inside her
as she's seen

in the book
her friend gave

a picture
of a man

and woman
having ***

he on top
she beneath

the man's ****
beautiful

she had thought
the long legs

benedict
would just kiss

or hold hands
nothing more

we're just kids
he had said

when she had
said they could

in the barn
in the church

in her room
all alone

her mother
out shopping

or maybe
in the field

hidden by corn
but not him

leaving her
feeling numb

unfulfilled
just them there

holding hands
and kissing

no *******
in the field.

I walked with Janice
through the Square
passed the milkman
and his horse drawn cart

she touching the horse
as we passed
and on to the top
and out onto Rockingham Street

and onto Harper Road
where are we going?
Janice asked
I want to show you

this bomb site
bomb site?
what's so special
about this bomb site?

it's got a big freezer
in the back
she looked at me
with her blue eyes

how big?
big enough for us
to get in and more
I said

we crossed the road
and turned left
and along round the back
she followed me

around the back
and through a gap
in the wooden panelling
and into the backyard

of the bombed out
butcher's shop
I walked over the bricks
and wood to the back

of the butcher's shop
and showed her
the big white freezer
gosh

she said
never seen anything
that big
I opened the door

and saw it was busted
it won't shut
it's busted
the locks busted

we went inside
it smelt stale and sickly
must have kept meat here
I said

smells like it
she said
we went out
and I pushed open

the door at the back
that led into the shop
we walked in
and around

the smell still there
dust and fallen
masonry and wood
an old till

with a drawer half open
it's creepy in here
she said
ghostly

like someone
is watching us
rats probably
I said

rats!
she said
and jumped backwards
she looked around her

and I saw her eyes
wide open
aren't you scared?
she asked

seen plenty of rats and mice
even saw a ***** in some place
******* in a corner
of a room

and he chased me off
I said
can we go now?
she said

I’ve seen enough
I gazed at her
saw her wide eyes
and said

ok
I’ve been here before
and seen most of it
so we climbed

out the back
and passed the freezer
and out the gap
and onto Harper Road

and along to the Penny Shop
to get a couple
of 1d drinks
then walked back

to the Square
and my parent's flat
and that basically
was that.

The black robed monks
genuflect towards
the altar

then bow
to each other
then take their places

in the choir.
I **** the grave
of an old French monk

in the monk's cemetery,
holding up
the bright red poppy

like a pagan's head.
The old peasant monk
sits in the stall

at the back of the church
where the lay brothers
used to sit

in the old days,
he stares
at the spot

on the flagstone floor
where sunlight
comes and lays.

We were sitting
on the pram sheds
by the *****
that went down
from the Square
looking towards
Meadow Row

had to sleep
in the small bed
last night
Lydia said
all because my big sister
wanted her Spiv boyfriend
to stay over night
and Dad was at work
on one of his
far away journeys
and Mum couldn't be bothered
with her and so
he was in the bed
I shared with her

what would your dad say
if he knew?
I asked

he'd be livid he would
but he isn't here
so my big sister
gets away with things

what's wrong
with the little bed?

it's uncomfortable
and the springs are broken
and I hate it

Lydia looked
at the passers-by
going along the *****

my brother gets to have
his own bed
but not me
she added bitterly

I share with my little brother
I said
he's ok
so how long is the Spiv
going to stay?

until my dad gets back
I suppose
she'd daren’t once he's back

I nodded
watching an old woman
going up Meadow Row
carrying two bags
her backside swaying
side to side
her black hat lopsided

let's give that old girl
a hand with her bags
I said

what old girl?
Lydia said

her up Meadow Row

I jumped down
and ran across the grass
over the low metal fence
and across Rockingham Street

Lydia followed me
and when we caught up
to the woman
I said
can we help you
with those bags Mrs?

she stood upright
and gawked at us both

where do you live?
Lydia asked
out of breath already

just up the top there
she said
but I would appreciate it
if you could help

so we did
took a bag each
and walked up
the top of the Row with her
she talking
about her health
(or lack of it)
and how her son
was killed in the War
and her daughter
was in Kent

Lydia said nothing
but carried the bag
with both hands
and I answered
the old dear
when I thought I ought to
carrying the bag
in one hand
giving the impression
it wasn't heavy
when it was

we stopped outside
her house
on the left hand side

thank you both
it was very kind of you
she said
here have 3d each
for your help

no no need
of your money Mrs
you keep it
just glad to help

I insist
she said
you deserve it

so she gave us both
a 3d piece
and smiled at us
and went inside
with her bags
and closed the door

we looked at the coins
in our palms
not quite enough
for a Mars Bar
but it will get us a drink
and gob-stopper
I said

Lydia put her coin
in her dress pocket
and we walked back
to the pram sheds

she said
I’ll be glad when Dad's back
then I can sleep
in my own bed

I thought of the 3d
and what to buy
going around
in my head.

Elaine dreamed of herself
and the boy John.

Elaine dreamed
she was in a field
of long grass
with a cornflower
blue sky and white
cotton wool clouds.

The Elaine in her dream
was lying on her back;
her hands across her stomach,
eyes on John at her side.

He was talking of butterflies
or birds or bird's eggs.

She wasn't listening;
she was studying the sky,
and cloud movement,
feeling shy.

She turned in her sleep;
pulled the pillow
close to her face.

The John in the dream
put his hand up
inside her skirt;
he said he was looking
for her butterfly;
the Elaine in her dream
said nothing;
the Elaine smiled.

The hand became fingers
or a finger and entered her.

She turned over in her sleep
and lay on her back.

She sensed him there
a feeling of opening up
and needing to ***.

Alarmed she awoke;
the moon was in
the corner of her window
giving out a bright glow.

Why didn't the Elaine
in her dream
say something
not just lay there
she wanted to know.

Stockholm
Moira said grumpily
I wanted
to go to Greece

but the **** war
put a stop
to that
she was sitting

with me
in a small café
she was in denim
with a pink blouse

smoking
a menthol cigarette
I like it here
I said

it's clean
and the girls
are nice and ****
and I am not?

she said
staring at me
her Scottish tones
sharp as razors

present company
included
I said smiling
she didn't smile

her lips were thin
and her eyes
were icy blue
I think have

Swedish roots
I said
she inhaled
and looked away

I’m fed up
she said
that Yank woman
is getting to me

with her talk
of men and ***
and how much
she can have them

eating out
of her hand
and I have to share
a tent with the *****

why she can't share
with the men
in camp
is beyond me

I don't fancy her
at all
I said
I should hope not

Moira said
I had you down
as one with taste
I lit a cigarette

and watched her
sitting opposite
she sipped
her *** and cola

your brother said
you were engaged
I said
what's that to you?

she said
nothing except
I can't imagine you
engaged to anyone

well I’m not
any more
I gave him the elbow
always after

getting me
into his bed
after a night out
what's wrong

with men
can't they just
have a night out
without ***?

guess not
I said
I drank my beer
and studied her

moody features
anyway
she said
hope you're not

expecting anything
after this wee
drink and smoke?
I wouldn’t dream of it

I said
but I had
but I didn't her
well not

at that time
I had to wait
for her mood
to clear

and her heart
to soften
and the Yank dame
to take a hike

to some guy's bed
and I made plans
but only
in my young guy's head.

Sometimes,
my son,
I just want
to be numb;
I want to wake
to bird song
and fresh morning air,
not human voice,
not the distant traffic's hum.

Sometimes,
my son,
I want the numbness
to envelope me,
to swallow me whole,
to keep out
the hurt and pain,
the breaking up
of heart
and ache of head,
pretending
you're not dead.

The numbness,
my son,
how it seems
to put things
in perspective,
allows the past
to dissolve
into a vague series
of images,
hoping to be lost,
forgetting the cost.

Sometimes, Ole,
I want to be numb,
need the feelings to go,
the pain to ease,
the last words
to freeze.

Only the drugged
sleep aids,
my son,
only the dreamless sleep
like sister death,
helps me
for a few hours
to unwind
the inner clock's
wound up spring.

Sometimes,
my son,
the drugs don't work,
the pain remains,
and I don't want the drink
to take hold again
to numb the pain.

Sometimes,
my son,
I just want
a numbness to ease,
the words be
temporally forgotten,
the visions seen,
packed away
for another day,
when I feel stronger,
when the loss of you,
hurts less(if ever),
and the night to day
questions come less
or do so no longer.

Some days,
my son,
I just want
to be numb.

Mrs B said
can I take you
out to dinner
one lunch time

for being
such a kind
young man?
I'll bring Lillian along

not because
I don't trust you Benny
because I do
but just in case

my husband hears
about me taking
you out for dinner
and thinks there's

something going on
and I wouldn't
want that
and I know

a nice restaurant
where we can
have a really
decent meal

and O best dress
in reasonable clothes
because the place
I am going to take you

is quite upmarket
no jeans or tee shirts
I let her talk on
while I studied her

after all
she was old enough
to be my mother
and unlike Lillian

who was of
a similar age
and was a quite dish
Mrs B

never struck me
as being
****** at all
but it was good

to have a meal
and see Lillian eat
and see her
delicate hands

and her pale complexion
and O those eyes
I could so easy
fall into them

and **** her in
O boy
how is that
for sin.

No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.

Her parents
seldom came
despite her

loss of leg
but Anne
didn't care

or so said
too busy
far away

to visit
her at the
nursing home

so she read
between lines
of letters

that they sent
now and then
when the leg

is better
and fresh healed
you can roam

your new home
or green field
the letter

last sent said
but Anne
didn't cry

or reply
as she was
meant to do

she just said
in her head
up you too.

Between you and me,
I kiss your photograph
when I pass,
the one on my phone
or the ones in frames
or  behind glass.

I do it secretly
so no one else
can see,
just between
you and me.

Sometimes
I blow a kiss
from my palm,
hoping it
will reach you
wherever you are,
a mere spiritual
world away
or maybe so
not quite far.

Some days,
I hold things
which were yours,
try and sense
the feel of you,
the scent of you
within the cloth
or book or other things,
holding tight to see
what comes or what
you may bring.

There is a part of me
that's forever lost,
part of me
that has a hole,
a scar, a wounded
heart and mind;
but also there are
parts of you which
none can take,
the link of memories,
the genetic hold
within me still,
your sound of voice,
the way you were
and stood, joked,
laughed or looked,
that picture of you
within my mind,
which none can see.

I kiss your picture
when I pass, secretly,
between you and me.

Sonya says
the Dostoevsky book
I’m reading
is a depressing read.

Read something
more joyful,
she says,
something less dark.

She's laying on the bed
in the Parisian hotel;
her blonde hair spread
on the pillow;
her hands holding
a book;
her legs crossed
at the ankles.

I look at her book cover:
Either/ Or.

What's that book?

Philosophy book;
by Kierkegaard.

Is that any more cheerful?

Depends on what
you mean
by cheerful;
it's not
a bundle of laughs.

She closes the book
and place sit
on the small table
by the bed.

Come lay here;
forget the book.

I put my book
on the dressing-table
by the window
and lay on the bed.

She uncrosses her legs
and turns to face me.

You need to lighten up;
life is too short
to spend time brooding
on the dark elements.

I look into
her icy blue eyes;
there's a new world there.

Kiss me;
hold me.

I kiss her
and hold her close;
I sense her breathing
on my cheek;
her ******* nudging
my chest;
her hands running
along my spine.

How are you feeling?

Fine,
I say,
feeling along
her thighs,
moving her skirt
as I go.

What do you feel?

Excitement and warm.

This is life;
this is living;
taking hold of the now
and holding on to it.

I sense my pecker stir;
my eyes widen;
I see her lips
readying
to kiss again.

She kisses;
no more words;
no more lectures
on life or living;
just a time
of taking
and giving.

Helen awakes
to dawn's light.

Tick tock
of hall clock.

Light peeps
through blue curtains
like a nosey child.

What day is it?
she muses.

Monday.

Sighs.

Looks at her doll,
Battered Betty,
beside her
in the bed;
one eye open,
one eye shut,
dressed in
an old grey dress.

Time?

Radio plays
from sitting room.

Music drifts.

Tick tock
of hall clock.

She counts.

Seven fifteen.

Tick tock.

Time to get up.

Sighs.

Pushes back
grey blankets.

Puts her feet
onto the cold
linoleum floor.

Cold.

She sits
on the edge
of her bed;
looks at her toes,
her feet.

She looks back
at Betty.

Lazy girl.

Sighs.

She gets up
and walks
to the window.

Peeps through
the curtains
at day's dull light.

Coldness bites
at her limbs.

She stares
at the wall opposite;
dull coloured bricks.

She can smell
bacon frying.

Breakfast.

She walks across
her room
on cold linoleum.

Opens the door,
goes out
and closes door;
leaves Betty
to sleep.

She walks down
the passage.

Radio plays.

Music filters.

Bacon smell.

Her mother is
at the gas cooker
frying bacon.

Her hair in curlers,
dark hair,
plump features.

Fairies wake you up?
Mother asks.  

No, just woke up,
Helen says,
sniffing the air,
looking at
the kitchen/ bathroom.

The table has been lowered
over the bath.

Plates set out.

Wash before food,
Mother says.

Helen takes
the boiled water
in the kettle
to the sink
and places a plug
in the hole
and pours
the water in.

She puts the kettle
back on the stove.

She turns on
the cold tap
and feels
the water get
to the right
temperature.

Turns off the tap.

Rolls up the sleeves
of her night dress
and washes: neck,
face and hands.

Dries on the towel
behind the door.

Go and sit
in the sitting room
and I'll bring in
your breakfast,
Mother says.

Helen walks through
the passage
to the sitting room.

Her father is
at the dining table.

Tea sipping.

Smoking
a cigarette.

Smoke rises
to the ceiling.

She gets that
dull Monday morning,
yuk school,
feeling.

She tries to knit.

Her mother
showed her how
times over time.

Tapping the knuckles
if she got it wrong.

Drops a stitch.

Puts down the knitting
on the school desk.

Angela her friend says:
Never got it myself;
all fingers and thumbs.

Yochana rubs her knuckles.

That Benny boy
is looking at you?
Angela says.

Is he?
Yochana says.

She daren't look.

Blush.

Feels it coming
at the mere thought.

She picks up
the knitting again
and begins to knit
(of sorts).

Still looking.
What's he looking for?
His friend's gazing too.
Couple of loons,
Angela says.
Don't bother with them.

Drops a stitch.

All fingers and thumbs.

Blushes, thinks of him
and that kiss.

Cheek ward.

Suddenly there
he was that day.

Kissed.

Now and forever
still there
the memory of.

She glances over
her shoulder.

He smiles
and mouths a kiss.

She looks away.

The blown kiss
runs down the back
of her neck,
she can sense it there,
damp, warm,
a light running feel
(between thighs)
a mild inner storm.

What you think
you see is a man
at prayer, but he
could be just a man

tired of war, eyes
closed, head in hard
hands, sitting there.
He sits in mud, his

uniformed backside
stained, smeared,
like a young boy
having played some

ball game in a muddy
field, with broken
wagons and dead
horses and men lying

all about, stuck in
or ****** in mud
of clay. What you
think you see is now

frozen in time, dead
men or horses counted
in millions far beyond
the mind’s conception,

lay scattered here and
there, as if some god
had cast a hand or arm
to clear (like some bored

child) his view of toys,
all games grown stale.
What you think you see
in sepia echoes through

the days of now and years
of yore, the folly, the all
unstoppable, called war.

Knowing I couldn't take
my silver looking toy
6 shooter to school
I had to make

a pretend gun
out of fingers and thumb
Dennis went one better
and had this quite

imaginative machine gun
between his two
closed fists
and made a

hurthurthurt sound
as he pulled
the pretend trigger
or take from his jacket

a grenade and pulling out
the pin he'd throw it
and go BANG
loudly in the playground

luckily
he was on my side
and with Derek
who had a 6 shooter too

we managed
to continue
our version of WW2
accidentally

in the process
catching the teacher
Miss Ashdown
in the ****

a few times
but she never
seemed to notice
but on the way home

from school
in the late afternoon
Helen said
why do you boys

have to play war games?
why can't you play
skip rope or a catch game?
I looked at her

sideways on
taking in her
two brown plaits of hair
and thick lens glasses

and the grey skirt
and whitish blouse
and she looked at me
kind of serious

frowning
boys do that
they make war
they shoot

the bad guys
they are boys
she wasn't convinced
but the noise

you make too
the drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr sounds
or bang bang noise
we crossed under

the subway
her drrrrrr sound echoed
along the walls
can you imagine

us boys with skip ropes?
or playing catch games?  
yes
she said

why not?
we do other stuff
I said
we play card games

I won 13 film star cards
the other day
playing against
some kid

in the playground
and the Monroe one
I swapped
for 3 footballers

we came out along
the New Kent Road
and walked by the cinema
how about coming

to the cinema with me
Saturday
they've got
a good Western on?

she looked
the billboards
with small photographs
can't

haven't any money
she said
I’ll pay
my treat

I said
and where will you
get the money?
she asked

my old man
will cough up
he won't mind
I’ll have to ask my mum

she said
I gazed
at her brown hair
and ribbon

coloured a fading
dull red.

He slurps his soup,
the Dutch monk;
the monk on the stall,

reads
from
the life

of Cromwell.
I see onions swim
in the thin soup;

she invited my hand
to Eve's garden,
to **** amongst

the growth there.
The abbot
beneath

the crucifix,
bites an apple,
juices seep

from his plump chin;
as did she
with me.

You used to ride that bike
through these woods
Yehudit said
no tyres

no brakes
a ****** saddle
that almost
castrated you

Baruch laughed
yeah and I could get up
quite a speed
on that thing

and almost break
your neck
she said
they had just

made love
in the old shed
where he used
to store the old bike

he lay on his back
gazing at cobwebs
and leaves caught
in old spider webs

she lay on her side
staring at his profile
I loved that old bike
it was a death trap

she said
he smiled
yeah guess it was
she kissed

his naked thigh
what would your mother say
if she saw you
here now?

he asked
don't ask
she said
before kissing his hip

you know there's
probably mice in here
he said
she sat up

and looked around
where?
how the heck
do I know

he said
he turned and gazed
at her figure
in the half light

the semi light
caught one ***
caressed it
as if

an art piece
spiders too
he added
just to see

her reaction
she looked
on the floor
covered in dead leaves

and twigs
and his old coat
laid out there
I miss that old bike

he said
studying the touch
of light
on her head

seemingly
slicing her face
into two
one in shadow

one in light
what happened to it?
she asked
moving leaves

to satisfy herself
no mice or spiders
were there
Breathwaite kid took it

and it got broke up
Baruch said
she lay on her back
her head

on her folded coat
do people
still come here?
she asked

don’t know
he said
not seen anyone here
in a while

he kissed her cheek
in shadow
she moved towards him
moving her hand

along his thigh
she moved
into shadow
out of light of his eye.

You have to check
the bogs,
Blue says,
the inmates
try make off
with each
other sometimes.

I look at her,
the nurse,
younger,
yet more
authoritative.

Do they do it?

Will if they can;
some of the more
brighter have a hold
on the more
feeble minded.

I walk down
the corridor
of the hospital wing,
passing rooms,
side wards,
off corridors,
dark and uninviting.

I come to the toilets
and peer in.

Some big guy
is trying to ******
a younger guy.

Put him down,
Brogan;
this is not
the place or time.

The big guy looks at me
wondering what
to do or say;
he says nothing
and moves away
from Murphy
who just looks at me
and smiles.

Off you go, Murphy.

Off you go, Murphy,
he echoes
and trots off
back down the corridor.

That wasn't nice,
Brogan;
best be back
on the ward;
I think Blue's
looking for you.

His eyes enlarge
and he screws up
his nose.

He says nothing,
but goes by me,
looking at me
as if thinking
I may touch him,
but I don't,
unlike some,
I just walk back up
behind him.

Blue glares at him.

Have to watch him,
he's a molester.

Molester?

Yes, of kids,
filthy ******;
no one likes him;
what was he doing?

Having a ***.

He's dangerous;
he's here
for his mental state.

I watch as Blue moves off
in the direct
of a patient
rocking back and forth
on a chair over the way;
she talks to the man,
strokes his hair.

I look away.

There's a strong smell
of ***** about the ward;
it clings to you
like a disease,
enters your nose,
your clothes.

Blue takes hold
of Brogan's arm
and leads him
out of sight.  

I work days;
thank God
I’m not here
at night.

Where now, my son?
Have they laid you
amongst the dead?
Or are you seeing
another kind of being?

I try to remember
our last conversation,
the words exchanged,
but they are elusive
like exhaled breath
in a winter's sky.

I look for you
as I turn my head,
the familiar places,
the passage way,
the hall,
the sitting room,
the chair
by the window
most of all,

but no matter
how hard I stare,
you're not there,
least not
that I can see,
although despite
my not seeing,
you may well be.

We couldn't find
your Jimi Hendrix
tee shirt,
the one
you used to wear,
despite us looking
everywhere.

Maybe that's the one
you wore that final night,
the one they cut away
to restart
your flat lined heart?

My loves have bought me
another Jimi Hendrix
tee shirt
to remember you
and keep you
close and near.

That was good of them;
wasn't it my dear?

She stopped by our cottage
on the way down the road
to the school bus
Yehudit and her sister

my sister and her sister
walked ahead talking
she walked beside me
at a slower pace

my mother
quizzed me last night
Yehudit said

what about?
I asked

you and why
we're together so much
and what was going on?

what did you say?

said we were just friends
and that we were in the form
at school and were
necessarily together  
but she wasn't convinced
she said there were other reasons

I looked at her beside me
her brown hair tied
by a simple blue bow
her eyes focusing on me

someone ratted on us?
but who?

my sister most probably

why though?

she's mother little pet
we walked on
to the bus stop
in silence

I watched her sister in front
shorter maybe
more beautiful
but mouthy and spirited

we stood waiting
for the school bus
Yehudit staring at her sister

I stood next to her
our hands nearly touching

other kids
were at the bus stop too
so she said nothing
for a while

then the bus came
and we got on
and I sat next to Goldfinch

Yehudit sat next
to her sister at the front

Goldfinch talked about football
and who played what game
and who won

I watched Yehudit
talking to her sister
her sister blushed
and looked back at me
then she looked away again

Yehudit stared out
the window
at the coming down of rain.

They showered together,
lathered each the other,
soaped up
and then

turned on the tap,
washed off and up;
he moving along
her spine his finger,

moving on around
to her *******,
O boy, what a laugh,
better than a bath;

she washing along
his chest hairy,
soaked, then down
to his orchestra stalls

and Moby ****
washed and soothed,
and he kissing
in his blindness

with water,
her cheek, lips,
forehead;
she licking under

his chin, his jaw,
tongued, kissing
his upper lip
(blinded by

water, too),
then he began to sing,
baritone,

some Italian
love song,
not a note wrong,
his hand moving
along her ****
in circular motion,
she filling up with water
and deep emotion.

Daddy says
it's a sin
to see you

Fay tells me
as we meet
by Jail Park

she dressed in
a white skirt
and pink top

why is that?
I ask her
because you're

not Catholic
Daddy says
just seeing

me you mean
is a sin?
I ask her

or does he
mean meeting
me some place?

I don't know
she replies
he just said

seeing you
we went in
the park gates

and walk pass
the rose beds
the roses

coming out
in colours
of yellow

orange
and bright red
I thought sin

had to have
a wilful
element

I tell her
a deed done
knowingly

and with an
act of will
where did you

read all that?
she asks me
that pamphlet

you lent me
last Easter
I tell her

doesn't say
seeing me
was a sin

in the long
list of sins
I read there

we go in
sit on swings
and push off

with our feet
and ride high
so Daddy's

got it wrong?
she asks me
as she swings

past me high
yes he has
I reply

but don't tell
about that
she swings up

much higher
than I do
her white skirt

billows up
in the wind
I rise up

on the swing
pretending
my Spitfire's

blowing up
**** planes
in the sky

overhead
da-da-da
my pretend

machine gun
is sounding
in the air

Fay's skirt lifts
as she rides
showing off

underwear
but being
a good non

Catholic
kind of boy
I don't stare.

Ingrid's words
were muffled
when she spoke to me
by Dunn's hat shop

where we said
we'd meet
the day before
her thick lip

(where he father
had backhanded her)
moved slowly
does you dad

wear hats?
she asked
looking in
the shop window

no
I said
never seen him
ever wear a hat

not even to cover
his balding head
she looked
at the passing traffic

what happened to you?
I asked
pointing to her lip
my dad didn't like

the way I brushed
my hair
he said it was
too tartish

whatever that means
she said
tapping her
recently brushed hair

I tried to get out
of his way
but he caught me
with a backhand

I’m going
to the cinema
this afternoon
I said

there's a cowboy film on
and I want to see
how the good guy
draws out his gun

he does it
by crossing over
his hands
could I come?

she asked
Mum might give me
9d for a ticket
as long as Dad

doesn't know
she added
sure
I said

come to my flat
after lunch
we walked down
the subway

to get
to St George's Road
to walk along
to Bedlam Park

to try out
the swings there
and buy an ice cream
outside the swimming pool

(money I'd been given
by my old man
for polishing
his brown brogues)

I studied her
as we walked along
she talking
of her old man's temper

and how he punched
her mother
for letting
his dinner get cold

I noticed her
faded grey dress
the flowers red
against watery green stems

grey-white
ankle socks
black scuffed shoes
her thin hands

gesturing as she talked
and the slight smell
of dampness
as I neared her

the bruise
under her left eye
fading
like the morning sun

where her old man
had thumped her
for something
she hadn't done.