The bell from the cloister rang. Echoed around and settled upon nun in bed cosy in blanket against morning’s cold and frost. Stirred. Head raised. Eyes peered into the dawn’s light, sighed, shivered, moved arms against body’s length. Closed eyes. Wished for more sleep. None to have. Bell rang. Time, ladies, please. Time and tide. Stirred again. Lifted head. Sighed. Gazed at bedside table. Clock tick tock, tick tock. Moved to edge of the bed. Feet dangled. Toes wiggled. Hands joined for prayer. Breath stilled. Silence of the room. Bell stopped. Sighed. Breathed air, cold air. Wake up, rise, and shine. Funny words. Tired still. Wished to sleep, but no time. Dangled feet rose and fell. Toes wriggled. Rose from bed and knelt on wooden floor. Hard floor. Cold floor. Polished to a shine floor. Knees slid on smooth surface. Back stiff from straw-stuffed bedding. Sighed. Sister Teresa joined hands. Let fingers touch. Let flesh touch flesh. Sin on sin once maybe. Long ago. Sighed. Opened eyes. Gazed at crucifix on wall above bed. Old Christ, battered by time and grime. Eyes closed image held in mind’s eye. Prayer began. Words searched for amongst the wordless zones. Reaching through darkness for an inch of light. Light upon light. Darkness upon darkness. Who felt this she does not know. None speak except Sister John. Word upon word built. Holy upon holy. Sit here, she’d say. Rest a while. Rest in cloister. Rest on bench by cloister wall. You and she. Her hands old and wrinkled by time and age. Her eyes glassy. Her voice thin and worn, yet warm. Want to be close to warm. Especially in dark cold mornings like this, Teresa mused, lifting head and opening eyes to dawn’s light and cold’s chill in bone and skin. She stood and dressed. Disrobed from nightgown and into habit. Black as death with white wimple of innocence. Laughed softly. Such times. Such times. Harsh serge against soft flesh. Stiff whiteness on skin’s paleness. Sighed. Coughed. Made sign of cross from head to breast to breast. Never to touch, mama said, never let be touched. Words, long ago. Mama is dead. Rest in peace. No mirror. No image of seventeen-year old face or features now. Vanity of vanities. Sighed. Papa said, some men would deceive. Deceived by what? She often asked but none would tell. Ding **** bell. Silence now. Go now. Moved to door and down the cloister to the church and the dawn’s welcome cold and still. Teresa closed door and walked at pace soft and motionless seeming. None shall speak. Sing and chant and raise eyes and maybe a smile briefly, but none shall speak. Nor touch. For none may touch. Not as much as a sleeve felt or breath sensed. Each one an island. Water upon water none shall cross. Teresa sighed. Walked down the steps one by one, not to rush but not to lag sloth-like, lazily or drag wearily. Mother Abbess would know.Knows all. Sensed all. Next to God most feared. Most loved maybe if truth were known. Teresa sighed. Chill of cloister ate at bones and flesh. Nimble walking might ease, but walk as nuns do and cold bites like violent fish. Breathed in the air. The moon still out. Stuck out on a corner bright and white. The sun’s colour fed the dawn’s light. Brightness promised. Warmer weather. Warmer than Sister John. Who knows, Teresa mused, touching the cloister wall for sense of touch. Absence of touch can mean so much, Jude said, years before. Jude’s image faded now. No longer haunting as before. Teresa brushed her finger on the cloister wall. Rough and smooth. Rough and smooth. Men may deceive, papa said. Let none touch, mama advised. Long ago or seeming so. Seventeen-years old and innocent as innocence allowed. Jude laughed, feeling such. Wanting to touch. Over much. Entered church. Cool air. Sense of aloneness. Choir stalls. Smell of incense and polish mixed. Sense upon sense. Smell upon smell. Walked slowly. Genuflected to Christ. High on high. All seeing. Like Mother abbess. But less human. Less human all too human. The Crucified for all to see. Half naked there. Stretched wide arms. Head dangling lifeless or so seeming. Genuflection over moved to place in choir stall, stood, and stared at vacant wall. Brick upon brick. Sounds held. Chants upon chants sang once, held here. Chill in bone and flesh. Breviary held. Pages turned. Find the place and mark it well. Bell pulled sounds now. Nuns enter and gather round. Sister upon sister, elbow near elbow, but none may touch. None touch. None touch.Sister Rose eyes dim searched yours for morning joy. Smiled. Coughed. Awaited tap from Abbess. Smiled. Nodded. Hands held beneath black serge. Wanting to hold something, someone, but none may do so. None may touch. Tap, tap, wood on wood. Chant came as if from the cold air settled on ears. Felt in breast. Sensed and blessed, but none may touch. The sense to sing. The voice raised. The ear tuned. The mouth and lips employed, but none may touch. At least, said Sister Rose, not over much. Not over much. Still air. Cold air. Warmth wanted. Sister John or Sister Rose. None shall touch.

Milka sat on her bicycle
looking at you
the Saturday morning sun
was warm

you'd just finished work
and had met her
by the bridge
where we going?

she asked
we could leave the bikes
at my place
and go into town

to the cinema
you said
what just sit there
in the dark

and not be able
to see each other
or such?
she said

we could ride
to where I used to live
and see the pond there
where I used to fish?

you said
is it far?
she said
not too far

she pulled a face
can't go to my place
she said
my mother's home

as she usually is
no chance
of being alone
with you there

she said grumpily
mine is no good
at weekends
you said

she looked at you
her eyes gazing
the old pond then
it is

she said
and you began to cycle
with her beside you
back up the hill

and by the farmhouse
where she lived
and along narrow lanes
between hedgerows

and birds flying out
and the occasional
car rushing by
she beside you

talking all the way
about how her mother
moans about her
not doing this or that

or not doing
the chores properly
and how her two brothers
tease her

about going out with you
and how you needed
to see a shrink
and you smile

knowing her brothers well
then you're on the main road
and a mile or so
and you are there

and go in
by the back way
along a narrow lane
and into the woods

behind the cottage
where you used to live
and along the narrow ride
through the woods

to the field
and then the pond
which is peaceful
and the water is still

and a few ducks
swim there
and birds sing
from tall trees

you rest the bikes
against trees
and sit on the grass
by the pond

quiet here
you said
we used to call this
the lake

who's we?
Milka said
my old girlfriend and I
you replied

where is she now?
we don't see
each other any more
you said

Milka said nothing
but gazed at the water
of the pond
at the ducks there

and looked
at the fish
just beneath
the surface

did you make out here?
she asked
now and then
you said

why bring me here?
she said moodily
it's quiet
and we can be alone

you said
is that all?
not wanting relive
old memories with me?

she said
you gazed at her
no of course not
that was a different thing

different love
so you say
she said
should we leave then?

you said
she stared at the pond
at the ducks drifting
and the sunlight

through the branches
of tall trees
no
she said

I like it here
she lay down
on the grass
sunlight on her face

her hands resting
on her abdomen
you lay beside her
did you really

make out here?
now and then
did no one see you?
not that we ever knew

you said
she smiled
risky
what if someone had?

we didn't think of that
at the time
bet you didn't
she said

what was it like
the first time?
it's history
you said

we're what matters now
she nodded
yes I guess we are
she said

and the sun shone bright
through the tall trees
and a bird flew by
over head.

As a kid
you used to watch
your mother

shucking peas
over the kitchen sink
and see the skill

her fingers
and thumb had
of clearing out

the peas into a bowl
with a single move
and you asked her

for one of the shucks
to chew
and she said

shucks?
you want a shuck?
yes please

you said
and she gave you one
from her hand

and you chewed
the juices out
and let it move

around your mouth
like that old tobacco
the cowboys had

in the black
and white films
your father

had taken you to see
and then you swallowed
and asked for more

and your mother obliged
with a raised brow
and a continued

moving out of peas
from the shuck
with nimble thumb

and fingers’ grip
as another green shuck
sat upon your lip

cowboy style
and your mother
with a shake of head

smiled and carried
on her work
of pushing out peas

from the pod
as you walked off
into the cowboy sunset

thinking of the Wild West
with no thought
of Boothill or God.

Look at her
Greenfield said
he was referring
to Miss Money

a girl who sat
two desks in front
hair light brown
drawn into a woven plait

at the back
bet she’s  
got **** on her
he said

you glanced over
your finger turning
the page
of the history book

some text
on the Tudors
some boring ****
who had six wives

or so you’d read
the girl was engrossed
in writing
hand gripping a pen

head slightly down
I wouldn’t know
you said
bet she has

Greenfield uttered
the history teacher
had his back
to the class

fingers with chalk
scribbling
on the board
you noticed

the girl’s neck
between blouse collar
and light brown hair
my cousin’s got *******

he said
saw them
when she was dressing
one morning

while straying
at her house
getting ready
for a wedding

he drawled on
you followed the text
with your finger
the second wife

had her head
chopped off
poor *****
you thought

Miss Money turned
her profile captured
ear
eye maybe brown

then turned
back again
sunlight
from window’s glass

blessed her head
but Greenfield talked
of her figure
and waistline

instead
making motions
with his hands
in the air in front

history
was lost on him
Miss Money
moved him more

at least
some aspects did
not the finer things maybe
but he kind of

wrote and made
his own
dull history.

Judith took me
to the derelict cottage
just off the wood
in the Easter recess

from school
she opened up
the back door
and into the kitchen

with its smell
of damp and decay
it's been empty for years
she said

my sister and I
used to come here
and pretend
it was our own cottage

smells horrible
I said
ignore the smell
she said

pretend it's our
own cottage
and we have
just moved in

after marrying
when did we marry?
I asked
after we left school

she said
smiling
she walked into
a larger room

with wide windows
looking out
onto a large
overgrown garden

we could grow
some of our own food
she said
looking out

the window
I looked at
the hanging wallpaper
and a damp patch

on the ceiling
and our children
could play out there
she said

what children?  I asked
when did they come along?
after we married
she said

I don't remember
I said smiling
you will
if you pretend better

she said
moving through
to another room
at the front

I noticed a space
where a picture
must have hung
because it was cleaner

than the rest
of the wall
I like this room
she said

this is where we will sit
and have our TV
and radio
and the children

can sit with us
and we can cuddle them
I nodded playing along
let me show you upstairs

to the bedrooms
she said
so I followed her
up the creaky stairs

her green skirt
swaying as she walked
three bedrooms
she said

one for us
one for our boys
and one for our girls
she stood

in the front bedroom
looking out
over an untidy hedge
onto the road

this is our bedroom
she said
turning around
looking at it all

our bed can go there
she said
pointing to a wall
on the left

and we can have
a dressing table
and dresser
the room was empty

and smelt
over by the right wall
was a pile of ****
some one's been here

and dumped
I said
probably some *****
or hobo

she looked
at the ****
and said
who's dumped

in our bedroom?
I laughed
it isn't our room yet
pretend

she said
I pretended
the **** wasn't there
and we went

into the other bedrooms
and she said
this was where
such and such

will be
and out of the window
the overgrown garden
seemed vast

with an apple orchard
to the left
she touched my hand
and squeezed it

we will be happy here
she said
I looked about
the room years after  

the cottage smelt ranker
and she was dead.

Yehudit likes
the new boy
on the bus
she smiled has

he got on and
watched him walk
to the back
of the school bus

and sit in
a side seat
now she sits
at the front

of the bus
thinking about him
now and then
she looks back

over her shoulder
but he's looking out
the window
not at her

so she looks
forward again
musing on
what his name maybe

and whether he'll
be the type
she wants or likes
he looks good

the quiff of brown hair
the hazel eyes
-she gawked him good
as he got on board-

and he had that
Elvis smile
-feels goosebumps-
she thrusts her hands

between her thighs
and smiles to herself
in anticipation
scenery goes by

trees
hedges
fields
cows in the field

telegraph poles
birds in flight
in the sky
but all she

can think on is
what is his name?
and wondering
if he is looking

at her now
but she guesses
not somehow.

Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having

left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she

says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does

a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.

She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the

odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets

to know his way around after a while,
bit like a ****** gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when

its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in

fact, it was a good evening, a fine
****, he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,

of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just

say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine ****?  
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.

She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ***,
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it

was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the ***, the kisses, the holds.

She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on

her small ****, her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks

to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and

camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.

Miryam unzipped
the tent flap
and looked out
pretty dead out here

she said
Benedict looked at her ****
hiding behind
the blue jeans

come back in then
no point
in going out yet
she zipped it

back up
and crawled back
beside him
and lay down

looking up
at the blue tent canvas
what do you think
Morocco's like​?

she asked
Morocco
he replied
she laughed

I know that
but to experience it
apart from what
was in the booklet

they sent
with the other stuff
she said
have to see

when we get there
he replied
are you sure
that ex-army bloke

won't be back?
she asked
not for a few hours
he's gone to see sights

in Malaga
lucky us
she said
make the most of

he said
she gazed at him
is there no
satisfying you?

pretty much not
he said
she smiled
I’m sure people

heard us earlier
she said
your fault
if they did

he said
all that noise
and giggling
and oh oh oh

more more
I didn't
she said
you're making it up

pretty much so
he said
she kissed his cheek
to think I thought you

were the quiet one
she said
I am quiet
as a mouse

he replied
what if he comes back early
and we're making out?
she said

he won't
he's off to see
where
Picasso was born

and other
arty things
Benedict said
people might talk

if they see me
in here too much
she said
they can't see you

in here
he said
they might hear me
then be silent

he said smiling
trying to unbuttoned
her jeans
she watched him

biting her lower lip
seductively
and turning her head
at an angle

who said you could?
shall I stop?
he said
no don't you dare

she breathed out
she held his fingers
and helped unbutton
until it was

all done
there now you
she said
and unzipped his jeans

with one motion
why would he want
to see
where Picasso was born?

she said
taking off
?her jeans
and what other arty things?

Benedict undressed
listening
watching
takin
her tight ****
in the blue bra
museums
art shops

galleries
that kind of thing
boring ****
she said

putting her jeans
and underwear
to one side
yes guess so

Benedict said
what if
he changes his mind
and comes back?

she said
laying down
next to him well he'll get

a free lesson
in biology
won't he
Benedict said

she smiled
and kissed his neck
and said
utterly ****

what the hell
what the heck.

Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for ***; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of ***. She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****.
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.

After Friday choir practice
in the church

after the other members
had gone to the vestry

to ready themselves for home
she stood in the darkened church

looking at the altar
and the high windows

where only moonlight
shone through

and she said to you
we’ll stand here one day

and get married maybe
and say our vows

and there will be
our families and friends

and the parson will say
kiss the bride and you will

and she smiled
and looked at you

standing in the quiet church
and you said

some years off maybe
we’re only fourteen

and still at school
and we’ve got to get pass

your mother yet
like trying to get a ball

by a fat goalie
who fills the net

but she just shook her head
and smiled and said

don’t be so negative
look on the positive side

look to the future
with bright eyes

and it seems strange now
and sad to look back

at that night
with you and she

standing in that aisle
in semi-dark

while outside
in the night sky  

fate was working out
a different answer

where you
would marry others

and she would die
from cancer.

Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street

cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open

on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking

of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress

who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your

brother said, I don’t
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod

of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump

and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,

he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your

eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking

up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,

holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not

turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the

smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a

philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.

Anne was in the bath
splashing soapy water
over her small *******
you were by the door

looking anxiously about
what if some one comes in?
you asked
the doors locked

she said
but we’re not meant
to lock the door
when we’re in the bath

you said
meant?
you’re all full
of laws and rules

Skinny Kid
laws and rules
are meant
to be broken

that’s what
gives us
our freedom
you looked

at her damp black hair
her *******
like two wet piglets
I shouldn’t be here

you said
you dragged me
in here
she threw

two handfuls of water
over her face
spitting out
what got in

her mouth
shut the moaning Kid
it’s not every
10 years old kid

who gets to watch
a woman bath
you’re 12
you said

well a 12 year old woman
bath then
she said
taking hold

of a sponge
and washing
under her arms
where dark patches

of hair grew
I ought to go
you suggested meekly
no I might need you

to help me
out of the bath later
I can’t stand
on one ******* leg

can I
she said  
now get your
skinning backside

over here
you moved slowly
from the door
to the bath

and watched her reluctantly
wash between
her thighs
you can scrub my back

she said
I can’t reach behind
without rolling over
and almost

******* drowning
she handed you
the soapy sponge
and you rubbed

her back
with one hand
trying to look away
not notice

not to take it all in
lovely
she sighed
lovely Kid

and you scrubbed harder
and then handed her
back the sponge
and stood back

looking at the steamed up window
thin rivulets of water
running down
the frosted glass

now help me
get up and out
she said
and pass me a towel

you held her hand
as she heaved herself up
and she stood there
like a one legged Venus

and you gave her
the white towel
from the chair
and helped her out

on to the floor
making wet foot marks
as someone rattled
the handle

and called through
the bathroom the door.

Even in the train it is cold.

Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.

Had a job getting out,
she says.

Does he know
where you are going?

No, I just said
I was going out.

Was he suspicious.

Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.

Why Brighton?

I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.

She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.

Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.

How are things?

We rowed,
we always row.

I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.

Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?

I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.

What about the kids?

They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.

I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.

We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.

We must come here
and stay the weekend.

When?

When we can.

I look at her beside me.
She's serious.

What would he say?

He'll say nothing.

He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.

We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.

The sea's rough.

I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.

We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.

We kiss and embrace.

No one is about.

It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.

Her lips are on mine.

Feel her pulse.

Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.

We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.

Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?

Benedict went out
with Steinbeck’s wife
and Steinbeck (no not

that Steinbeck, some
other, less know, not
a writer, but a driver)

didn’t know, or if he
did he didn’t show as
if he did. The small hotel

with the hot water tap
running cold, the cold
running hot, the gas

fire blazing like some
dragon in a Disney
cartoon. Steinbeck’s

wife lay on the bed,
her arms outstretched,
her small ***** like

abandoned babes.
Aren’t you coming in
bed? She asked. Sure

I am, Benedict said, just
washing my hands,
about to brush my teeth.

The mirror in the narrow
bathroom was steamed
up, except where his hand

had made a clearing.
He stared at his face,
showed his teeth. Job

done. He spat out wasted
paste. Come on in Honey,
she said, as he climbed into

bed **** naked, his pecker
flopping like a dead goose’s
neck. She killed the lights.

The room flashed on and off
with neon lights from across
the way. Her features shone

up and then went out like
some ancient ghost. She
handled his pecker, her grip

about the base. He put his
hands on her ****, felt flesh,
moved fingers crablike to

where the buttocks met,
the thin crack.  She quickly
manhandled the pecker

into life, stiffened its resolve,
moved into place. That’s nice,
she said, placing fingers on

his back, moving him down.
Benedict seeing her features
flash up and out, thought of

Steinbeck driving his truck,
while he the apprentice was
having his wife, getting the ****.

At the back
of the coal wharf
you and Fay
picked up coal pieces

that fell through
the iron railings
and put them
in an ******* from home

Fay looked
at her blackened fingers
and said
if my daddy sees

these fingers
and finds out
what I’ve been doing
he’ll spank me

for sure
you gazed at her
beside you
and said

you can wash your hands
at my place
she looked around
at the bombsite behind you

the evening sun
slowly going down
behind the railway bridge
and nearby buildings

what if someone sees you
she asked
picking up these pieces?
no one worries about this

all the kids do it
you replied
my daddy says
it is evil to steal

she said
you put a black piece
of coal in the bag
and lifted it

to feel the weight
that’s enough
you said
too much

and I won’t be able
to carry it
Fay stood up
and looked around

at the darkening sky
you held the bag
in one hand
and scanned

the area around you
let’s go
you said
and so you both

walked away
from the coal wharf
into Meadow Row
by the public house

where piano music played
and down towards
the flats
where you lived

and after climbing
the concrete stairs
to your landing
you opened the door

and put the bag
by the indoor
coal bunker
and showed Fay

where to wash her hands
turning on
the cold water tap
you both washed

your hands
with the red
Life Buoy soap
her hands near yours

her wet flesh
touching yours
the black water
running away

and another adventure
and another day.

As she plays
the Schubert
piano piece
Yochana thinks

on Benedict
even as her mother  
stands behind her
listening to her

every note
Benedict's image
fills her mind
the kiss still

feels damp
upon her lips
and cheek
and as she fingers

the Schubert
she senses her fingers
wanting to finger him
her mother says

you missed a note
you are not focusing
Yochana pauses
her fingers

over the keyboard
of black and white
senses her mother's breath
upon her neck

her mother's fingers
tapping her shoulder
and even as
she begins

to play again
it's Benedict whom
she thinks on
and his eyes she sees

in the reflection
of the piano wood
it must flow
her mother says

let Schubert speak
but Benedict's fingers
on her back
as he held her close

are all she feels
as she moves
to the music's pulse
on the piano stool

and as her mother's breath
floats upon her neck
it's his breath
she imagines

is there
and she and he
not there at the piano
but closer elsewhere.

Madrid
and after the street salesman
conned you

out of coins
in your change
Mamie said

well put it down
to experience
we all get caught

at one time or other
and they have
brought forth

great art
and you stared at her
at her hair and eyes

and said
yes I guess
but you were still peeved

about it but then
thought of the night before
when you and she

had slept all night
in the coach
through France

and into Spain
she with her head
on your shoulder

making little
snoring sounds
sometimes talking

in her sleep
other times
turning towards you

with her mouth
slightly ajar
and her hair

in a mess
and you had moved in
on her and kissed

her brow
like one planting
a soft kiss

on a corpse
and that made you laugh
and she said

what’s so funny?
and you said
taking hold

of her hand
crossing a street
just something

entered my head
what?
she said

about kissing a corpse
you replied
what corpse?

and that reminded you
of the time they brought
your father’s body home

for the night before
his funeral and as
he lay there

in the coffin
your gran had said
kiss him goodbye

and so you did
and that stayed with you
the feel

and chilled skin
and how it didn’t seem
to be him

just a shell
but you loved him still
for all that

and when you told her that
she said
how sweet

and you gazed at her
at her eyes
and hair

and kissable lips
as you walked
the Spanish street.

Atara wants to listen
to the pianist
play some Chopin
in some place

in Dubrovnik
so we get dressed
in our best
have a shot

of ***** first
and a smoke
on the balcony
a look over the sea

and she says
I he'd wished play Mozart
I like Mozart
well he's playing Chopin

so that's it
I say
but he won't be playing
the piano concertos

of Chopin
she says
no he hasn't got
an orchestra with him

just him
playing alone
I say
she sits on the balcony

in her red dress
the one that I bought her
in Paris
the one she's grown out of

(not to mention it
to her of course)
she inhales
and looks

at the street below  
remember
when we made love
to Chopin's Piano Concerto

number 2​?
she asks
we didn't make love
to the concerto

we made love
with each other
I say
you know

what I mean
she says
you'd bought me
an LP

of the two concertos
and we made love
to the 2nd one
I looked at the red dress

it fitted tightly
her *******
were pushing it
to the limits

her plump knees
were showing
that red dress ok?
I ask

she looks at me
sure it is
it's my favourite
she replies

pulling at the hem
trying to pull it
over her knees
you bought it for me

in Paris
yes I did
back in 1970
is it that long ago?

two years?
yes two years
I say
gosh I don't usually

have a dress that long
she says
maybe you should
buy me a new one

she says
I bought a new one
last month
to go to that wedding

I say
O but that
was a wedding going dress
she says

I look away
look at the sea
the red dress is fine
I say

(despite what people might see)
there's a good looking dame
on the balcony over the way
I don't say.

There’s a salesperson at the door
someone said
and so you went to the door
and there was the young salesman

with a book in his hand
and in a sharp grey suit
and hair neat and short cut
yes?

you said
I represent Carson’s stores
and it has been brought
to my notice

that you are behind
with your payments
is that so?
you said

yes
the young guy said
three months behind
and if you don’t pay today

the item you have chosen to buy
will be removed
is that so?
you said

the young guy looked
into his book of figures
and script
so you called out

Dolly there’s a young guy here
who says we owe him money
you both waited
while Dolly came to the door

what do we owe?
she asked
money
the young guy said

what for?
Dolly said
a vacuum cleaner
the young guy said

you are three months behind
now if you do not pay up today
it will be removed
Dolly raised her eyebrows

and put on her
don’t mess with me face
and went off
the young guy

and you looked
at each other in silence
after a few minutes
Dolly returned

carrying the vacuum cleaner
here
she said
here’s your **** Hoover

take the thing
and go stick it
where the sun
don’t shine

and so the young man
held up the vacuum cleaner
and looked at you
and Dolly

and said
right don’t come back
to the store
because you won’t

be served again
and off he went
out along the road
in the falling black rain.

What did that bit of skirt
want with you
this morning?
Ro asks

I look past him
outside the fence
at kids walking
onto the high school
playing field

just to talk

skirt's don't want
just to talk
they are always
after something
Ro says
want to tie you
down to something
or be their boyfriend
or something sad
like that

no just talk
and not much
of that
I say
she seemed nervous

with you
who wouldn't
and he laughs
anyway how about
a ball game?

Ok
I say

I look away from him
hoping to see
the Shoshana girl
but I don't see her

so I walk with Ro
on the field to play
and other boys
up ready to play

then I see her
sitting on the grass
with some other girl
and she waves
and I wave back

but don't go over
I'm playing ball
on the right wing

but gazing at her
was like hearing
an angel sing.

At Oslo
at the camp
after a

downpour of
heavy rain
Dalya said

there's a
hole in my
canvas tent

and the rain
comes right in
and the *****

I share with
moans at me
then goes off

and shares with
that Aussie
who she likes

and leaves me
to the wet
you can share

my tent if
you don't mind
as the bloke

I shared with
shares with that
German girl

I thought she
was Polish?
Dalya said

no German
I replied
she told me

her father
drove a tank
in the war

that's why the
Polish girl
and her mum

have nothing
to do with
her in camp

O I see
Dalya said
so she slept

in my tent
but I won't
share your bed

she told me
but what she
later did

-have hot ***-
is not quite
what she said.

Miriam sat on the coach next to the boy Benedict shed met him at Dover Priory Station as they both got in the double decker bus to the ferry port can I sit next to you? shed asked him sure hed said and moved over in the seat to allow her to sit on the already crowded bus and the bus took off to the ferry port with its packed bus of passengers Miriam didnt want to spend the next two weeks of her holiday abroad alone and even though there would be about thirty in the holiday package she knew no one and some were in couples married or otherwise or lone girls like her or the single boys whom she felt were not her kind except this boy seemed a bit different although she couldnt quite put her finger on what it was and when they got off the bus and onto the ferry she stayed near him as much as possible talking when she could or stood next to him as they looked out at the sea once the ferry had left the port and once they had arrived at Calais and disembarked from the ferry she followed him onto the coach where she said can I sit next to you? if you like he said  did you want to sit by the window? if I could she said and he allowed her to go in first and once she was settled in her seat he moved in beside her and lay his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes she looked out the window waiting for the coach to take off are you sure you dont mind me sitting here? she asked no of course not he said not opening his eyes good to have company and pretty company she smiled and turned and gazed at her reflection in the glass of the window as best she could she never considered herself pretty what with her tight red  curly hair and her freckled face and bright blue eyes and a mouth she thought too wide she pulled a face at herself and looked away she settled back in the seat and lay her head on the rest at the back of the seat and tried to sleep for a while but she was too restless and opened her eyes and sat gazing at the passengers still boarding the coach her hands were restless she wanted to do something with them so she tucked them between her thighs out of the way and stared out the window a few stragglers were still waiting to board the coach she ought to have got the book out of her case to read on the journey now she had nothing to do but look out the window or at her fellow passengers or close her eyes and sleep she gazed at the boy Benedict beside her his eyes still closed soon be off she said to him hope its soon he replied me too she said hoping he would open his eyes and look at her but he didnt he just lay there with his eyes closed then after a few minutes the coach started up and the coach began to move from the Calais port and onto a road were off she said he opened his eyes and looked past her head about time he said and looked at the passing view she studied him sitting there with his hazel eyes and quiff of hair brown and wavy isnt it exciting she said to be actually taking off he gazed at her and smiled taking off what? from the port she said catching his smile what did you think I meant? nothing its my imagination goes riot at times she looked at him what did you think Id take off something? she said well could take off that jumper its too hot for it at the moment she raised an eyebrow is it? she said aren't you hot? he asked she supposed she was rather when she thought about and so she took of her jumper and tucked it behind her and sat back on it is that better? she asked I like the tee shirt he said she looked down at the tee shirt it had two rabbits where her ******* were what are their names? he asked what? she said the rabbits what are their names? he said I dont know she said I havent given them names he smiled how can you not name rabbits with names? she shrugged theyre not real rabbits theyre only printed rabbits on cloth she said still rabbits though he said printed or otherwise she smiled ok what shall I call them then?she asked thats up to you he said what names do rabbits have? all sorts of names she said did you have rabbits as a child? he asked yes I did she said reflecting back two white ones Fluffy and Snowy she said smiling so which one will be Fluffy and which Snowy he asked pointing to the two printed rabbits on her tee shirt you choose she said which one looks most like Fluffy? he studied the two rabbits closely mmm think the one of the right looks more fluffy than the one of the left so that one is Snowy? she asked yes I guess so he said the driver switched on the radio and classic music filled the coach thats Chopin Benedict said what is? she said I thought we decided on Snowy no the music he said its a Chopin piece is it? she said yes a sonata I think she gazed at him and he looked at her so how often will you feed the rabbits? feed them? she said sure you got to feed rabbits or theyll die of hunger he said smiling theyre not real rabbits she said smiling at him they look real he said sitting there all kind of innocent and hungry but theyre not real except maybe I will feed them later just to please you she said o good he said and dont forget to give them plenty of strokes rabbits like to be stroked maybe later I will she said looking at him taking in his bright hazel eyes gazing at her eyes of bright blue maybe later she said you can stroke them too.

Sister Scholastica left the refectory after lunch; made her way to the grounds for the twice-daily recreation period. She had been one of the twelve nuns to be chosen to have their feet washed by the abbess later that day. Some were too old, some too young, she imagined, looking for a quiet spot to wander; take in the scenery; meditate on her day and the following days to come of Easter. A chaffinch flew near by; a blackbird alighted on the ground and then flew off again. She paused. Maundy Thursday. Her sister Margaret had died on a Thursday. She remembered the day her sister was found in her cot by her mother; heard the screams; the rushing of both about her; her father’s harsh words; both shouting; her being pushed aside; wondering what had happened; no one saying until the small coffin was taken out of the house for the funeral and off to the church which she was not allowed to attend. Mother was never the same afterwards. The days of lucidity grew less and less; madness crept over her like a dark spider spinning its web tightly. She sighed. Walked on through the grounds passed the stature of Our Lady green with moss and neglect. The sun warmed. Say your prayers, mother had said, always say your prayers. Mother’s dark eyes lined with bags through lack of sleep, peered at her especially when the madness held her like a bewitched lover. Poor Margaret, poor sister, only said baby sounds, off into the night. One of the nuns passed her with a gentle nod and a smile. Sister Mary. She saw her once holding the hand of another sister, late evening after Compline, along the cloister in the shadows. Father fumed at the creeping madness; Mother’s spewing words; the language foul. She stopped; looked at the apple orchard. Le repas saint: le corps et le sang de Christ, Sister Catherine said to her that morning after mass, the holy meal, the body and blood of Christ, Sister Scholastica translated in her mind as she paused by the old summerhouse. Francis, who once claimed to have loved her, wanted only to copulate; left her for some other a year later. A bell rang from the church. Sighed, Time not hers. She fingered her rosary, a thousand prayers on each bead, each bead through her finger and thumb. Her father beat her when her mother’s rosary broke in her hands; the room was cold and dark. Pray often, Mother said, in moments of lucidity. Time to return. The voice of God in the bells. She turned; walked back towards the convent, her rosary swinging gently in her hand, her eyes taking in the church tower high above the trees; a soft cool breeze kissing her cheek like Francis did once, long long ago before Christ called and made her a bride; clothed her in black as if in mourning for the sinful world she’d left behind.

Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature

of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like

figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,

red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding

teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard

her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand

to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.

She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.

She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and

put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her

mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,

by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny

with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;

birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for

rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother

loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts

and smacks
and never misses.

Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing

as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed

the colour, the waves, the  
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with

the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.

He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind

her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross

without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress

who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding

an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;

hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.

He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,

the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just

gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,

if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.

They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.

You walk along the beach with the sand between and beneath your naked toes, the sun touching your skin, the slight breeze feeling your hair. You stop and stare at the sea, the sound of the waves on the shore, like an old man breathing and sighing. There are no ships today; the horizon is bare; empty. You remember walking along this beach with Giles, his hand in yours, the promises he made, the laughs you both had, the look in his eyes, that smile he had. You smile briefly, wipe your small hand across your lips, try to recall that kiss, gone. The sun is high in the sky, blue with hints of white in the horizon, the sea, the far off places long out of reach. If only I hadn’t found that **** letter, you muse darkly, breathing deeply, sensing the sea air, the sharpness of it, the chill on the lungs, if only you hadn’t seen the words of his betrayal, his words of love to another, her of all people, she who had befriended you. Lies. All of those lies, you muse, those bits of truth and lies together, the devil’s mix, the lying *****, him saying those things to her, and to you he says another, liars both of them. You walk on along the deserted beach, your toes scrunching into the sand, the grittiness between the toes, the sharpness underfoot. We made love over there, you tell yourself, indicating an area of rocks, a secret place you thought was yours and his, where he had uncovered you and under those stars, moon and evening breeze, had entered you. You close your eyes and wonder if he brought her here, made love to her in that place, did to her what he did to you. The possibility haunts you, hurts deeply, drives to walk closer to the edge of the sea and shore. You want the sea to take you; want the waves to swallow you up and spit you up some miles down the coast. A lifeless body, a floating bloated cadaver. But that takes a courage you lack, a courage you do not have, despite your hurt and pain, despite your inner anger. You wish you had not read the letter from his pocket, had not searched, had not seen it and opened up the envelope. If only you had remained in innocence of his betrayal, innocent of all that filth and lies. His words to you that morning, as he rose from bed, as his arms left your side, were so loving, so kind. Ceili, he said, Ceili, you are the morning of my day. Such words. Such words said. The sun is warm on your face, the breeze a little chillier now, the sea a bit wilder, the waves touching your feet, touching your toes. What price betrayal? What reward? You wander along the shore, the sea touching you as he had done, feeling your flesh, sensing your life blood, you stop, turn back, empty your mind, vacate, the you, the memory of loss, the life of betrayal.

Before choir practice
before entering
the vestry door
you and Judith

stayed behind
and waited until
the others
had gone inside

and Judith said
look at those stars
and how dark blue
the sky is

you gazed up
at the evening spread
of dark blue
and stars

and moon
to one side
and you put
your hand

around her waist
and drew her close
and she lay
against you

and you said
I read some place
that some
of those distant stars

burned out
centuries ago
and what we see
is the ghostly glow

of dead stars
and she turned your head
towards her
and kissed you

and the pressing
of her lips on yours
and her hands
on your waist

and her 13 year old
******* pushing
against your
14 year old chest

and the sound
of the choir starting up
in practice in the church
and the flight of bats

across
the evening sky
and she holding you near
and the lips engaged

and the eyes closed
and the breathing
taken in
coming up for air

and behind you
the aging graves
the tombstones
with moss

and half lit
by moonlight
and star’s glow
and you held her

in place face to face
with your hands
upon the cheeks
of her behind

eyes still closed
in the land
of the love ******
blind.

The water
in the bath
is quite hot

and soapy
Elaine's mum
has run it

put in her
own bath stuff
Elaine lays

all stretched out
her feet at
the tap end

the water
soapy hot
caresses

her small *******
she hates them
and loves them

they tell her
she's growing
into a

young woman
her childhood
almost gone

they look like
small piglets
drowning there

she muses
she hates it
when at school

in P.E.
when the girls
point at her

look at those
small *******
they tell her

the boy John
whom she likes
at the school

doesn't look
or seem to
but maybe

he does gaze
secretly
she muses

and that thought
undoes her
he looking

mentally
he touching
each of them

how to get
such a thought
out of mind?

she sits up
in the bath
she'll ask him

if he does
when at school
the next day

but she won't
she knows it
but she'll watch

as he talks
of bird's eggs
or new seen

butterflies
where he looks
with his eyes

what beneath
her white blouse
and small bra

bunched up lies.

The girl holds
The apricot
In her hand;
And as
She brings it
To her lips
Seductively,

You sit back
In your chair
And take note
Of her movements,
Like an artist
Meditating
On his subject,

Taking in
The way
Her lips part
And her tongue,
Like some
Small lizard,
Licks

The apricot's skin;
The juices
From her mouth
Linger
At the edges;
You watch
As she bites

The flesh sedately
As she can,
(As if
It were
The skin
Of her lover man)
Then eating

(As maybe
Her mother
Told her)
With lips sealed,
Her eyes close,
Her whole body
Engaging the fruit,

The sensations
Of flesh on flesh,
In an almost
****** love game,
The juices runs,
Down the hand,
Out between

Lips partly sealed,
Onto the chin,
Where you watch,
As her hand
Brushes seductively
The high juices
With a small laughter.

I sat on Balzac’s lap, Betula said.
The psychiatrist twitched his nose,
Scribbled notes. Where was this?

Outside a Paris cafe. He looked up
At her and stared. Were you alone?
No Balzac was there. He scribbled

More notes, his pen moved quickly
Across the page. Anyone else?
My grandmother. Can she substantiate

You sitting on Balzac’s lap? Yes, she
Was there. Where about does your
Grandmother live? She doesn’t.

Doesn’t what? He asked. Live. She
Died some years back, but she does
Visit. The psychiatrist frowned, scribbled

More notes. Do you see anyone else?
Yes, my sister, Alice. Is she dead, too?
Oh, no, she lives at home with Mother.

He sat back in his chair that squeaked.  
Betula put her hands on the arms of
Her chair and moved them backward

And forward, studying the psychiatrist,
His deep set eyes, his thick brows, his
Thin lips. Why did you sit on Balzac’s lap?

He asked. Because he said I could, she
Replied, feeling the warmth from rubbing
Her hands on the arms of the chair. Do you

Know who Balzac was? He asked. He said
He was a writer, Betula said, putting
Her hands in her lap.  He died in 1850,

The psychiatrist said. Yes, I know,
Betula muttered, he said. He scribbled
More notes. He gazed at her. It’s all in

Your mind, he said, these things you say
You see and do. Balzac said you’d say that,
She replied, said no one would believe what

I said about him and sitting on his lap.
The psychiatrist took out a peppermint,
Put it in his mouth and ******. Betula

Looked over his head and said, Grandmother
Says I’m done for, Balzac says, I’m ******.

They met in the Square. Weather warm and sun sticky. Hannah was in her short dress and sandals. Benedict in jeans and tee shirt and black plimsolls. It was Saturday and they'd decided to give the morning matinee a miss and go elsewhere. We can go and paddle on the side of the Thames, she said. Can we? He asked. Sure we can. He wasn't sure. Is it wise? He said, what with all the crap that's put in? She looked at him. We're not to drink the water, just paddle in it. It's water, not **** pool, she said. Won't we need towels? No, our feet'll dry in the sun. She eyed him. How old are you? Twelve, he said. Not a baby, then? She said. No, he replied. We're both twelve, she said, so let's go get our feet wet. What did your mum say when you told her where you were going? I didn't, Hannah said. Why not? He said. Because she'd have said:Ye cannae gang in th' Thames. So I didn't tell her. What did you say? He asked. Said I was going to see boats on the Thames. What did she say to that? Benedict asked. Dornt faa in th' water, she said. Benedict laughed at Hannah's mocking her mother's Scottish dialect. What did you say to her? Hannah pulled a straight face, stern features. I said, Ah willnae. He laughed again. Right let's be off, she said. They walked out of the Square and up Meadow Row. Did you tell your mum where you were going? Hannah asked. Just said I was going out with you, he said. What did your mum say? Hannah asked. She said ok and be careful, he replied. They walked to the bus stop and got a bus to South Bank. The bus was crowded. They sat at the back on side seats. A plump man next to Hannah wiggled up close to her; his thigh touched hers. She felt uncomfortable. He smelt of sweat and cigarette smoke. She was glad when they got off. She stared at him and mumbled, ye mingin prat. Benedict said, what? Not you, that prat on the bus, touching me, she said. Benedict watched the bus go. You should have said, he said, we could have got him thrown off the bus. Too much hassle, she said. They walked along by the Thames, looking down at the water. Looks too high, Benedict said. Maybe later, she said. So they lay side by side on the grass by the Thames and enjoyed the sun.  Her fingers touched his. They were warm and dampish. He sensed her fingers against his. They turned and faced each other, finger still touching. Do you like me? She asked. Of course I do, he replied. She eyed him. I think of you a lot, she said. Do you? He said. She nodded. Yes, quite a bit, she said. O, right, he said, looking at her, taking in her darkish eyes and her hair in a ponytail. Have you ever kissed a girl before? She asked. He looked past her at the passing people. A man with a dog stared at them. I kissed my aunt once, he said, looking at her again. No, I meant a girl, not a relative, Hannah said. He thought, searching through his memory files. Don't think so, he said. Couldn't have been very good if you can't remember, she said. He never made a habit of kissing girls: other boys frowned on such behaviour. He had kissed a girl with one leg once at a nursing home when he was eleven. A year ago, yes, he said, I kissed a girl with one leg a year or so ago. Where did you kiss her? Hannah asked, her leg? He smiled. No,on her cheek, he replied, remembering. Why did you kiss her? Hannah asked. She said I could. She was twelve and big and had just the one leg. Hannah looked at him. Took in his quiff of hair, the hazel eyes and the Elvis smile-she'd seen a photo in a magazine of Elvis Presley and loved the smile- and the set of his jawline. Do you kiss any girl with one leg? She asked.  No, he said, just that one time. She looked at him, her fingers beginning to squeeze his. Would you kiss me? She asked. He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't entered his mind. Did you want me to? He said. Do you want to, she replied. What would your mum say? She'd say: whit ur ye kissin' fur? . He laughed. It tickled him when she said spoke her mother's dialect. He looked at her face. Where? He said. Where what? She said. Kiss you? Where shall I kiss you? He said, feeling shy all of a sudden. Where did you want to kiss me? He looked away. Crowds were passing by on the South Bank. Don't know, he said, looking back at her. She sighed. Looked at him. Squeezed his fingers tighter. I'll kiss you, then, she said. She leaned close to him and kissed his cheek. It was a short kiss. He sensed it: warm and wet. Was that it? He mused. She lay there staring at him. Well? What do you think of that? She said. He wasn't sure. It felt all right. It was ok, he said. Just ok? She said, looking at him. He nodded. She drew him closer to her and kissed his lips and pressed long and hard. He panicked briefly as if he'd not breathe again, but he relaxed as her lips became glued to his, and he closed his eyes, and felt a mild opening in himself and he breathed through his nose. As she kissed him, her lips pressing on his, she felt a warm feeling rise through her body as she'd not felt before. It felt unreal. Felt as if she'd entered another body and was a spectator in a game. She pulled away from his lisp and stared at him. How was that? Sh asked. He lay there his eyes closed as if dazed. He opened his eyes. Gosh, he breathed rather than said. She blew out and lay back on the grass. He lay back, too. What would your mum say if she saw us kissing? She smiled and said, lae heem aloyn ye dornt ken whaur he's bin. Benedict laughed and closed his eyes trying to picture Mrs Scot saying it. What does it mean? He asked laughing. Leave him alone you don't know where he's been, she said smiling. She turned and looked at him again. He turned and gazed at her. The laughter died away. How do you feel? She asked. Feel about what? He said. No, how do you feel inside? She said. He didn't know. It was new to him this kissing. He sighed. Don't know. How about you? He said. Tingly, she said in reply. Inside me. My body tingled. Is that a good thing? He asked, uncertain of these matters. I don't know, she said, looking at him. Do you want to paddle in the Thames? He asked. No, not now, she said, I want to kiss again. They lay there gazing each other. Let's go elsewhere though, she suggested. Where? He asked. St James's Park, she suggested, we can get a bus there. Ok, he said. So they walked to the bus stop and got a bus to St. James's Park. It was crowded. People everywhere: walking, sitting, lying down, running. They both sat on then grass, then after a few minutes, they lay on the grass. Hannah stared at him. He looked at her eyes. She moved forward and kissed his lips. Pressed them, breathing through her nose, closed her eyes. He closed his eyes as she closed her eyes. His lips felt hers. Warming, pressing, wettish, her tongue touching his just on the tips. He felt as if suddenly as if he were falling and then he opened his eyes and she had moved away from him. Well? She said, how was that? He sensed his lips slightly bruised, but warm and he felt unusually alive. She gazed at him. She felt opened up as if someone had unzipped her and exposed her. It was good, he said, taking hold of her hand, holding it against his cheek. She sighed, it was  good, but it felt surreal, as if it had been a dream, not real, not her kissing. It was, she said, still kissing him inside of her twelve her old head.

Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave

her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's

clothes her father brought
home from a  junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading

shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.

Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with

Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from

her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the

Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens

the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter

gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks

fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.

Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,

he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have

done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty

a bath, she says, nice and clean now.  
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our

kid *****. Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.

Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,

looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he

says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him

about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,

the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.

Your shirts
hang drying
that we washed,
my son.

I recall you
wearing them,
each
and every one.

They hang there
lonesome now,
sad relics
of your wardrobe,
cast-offs
of a life
gone too soon,
cut short,
live long after me,
I thought.

I like the patterns,
the colours, too,
but on seeing them,
I’m remembered sadly,
of lovely you.

I sniff
along the cloth,
feel the buttons
that you once
did up, undid,
your fingers touch
and hug and feel,
the pain, of that,
too much.

The shirts hang
innocent, unaware,
lifeless, unworn
and cold,
I can feel them,
but want you
to hold.

Maybe I’ll wear the shirts
to give them back
some life,
some warmth,
fill them out,
give them body
to embrace,
pretend to them
I’m you,  
act out the lie,
not reveal to them,
not tell them,
I watched you die.

They must be
A couple
Of right *******
To ill threat

The young man so;
One blonde,
One brunette,
Thinking themselves,

No doubt,
God’s gift,
Gift of the gab
More like,

Strutting their
Henhouse tracks
With feathers
Prim and proper

They like to think.
Smell the perfume stink,
The eyelids painted,
Nails clipped

And primed,
Tongues wagging,
Like tails of *******
On full heat.  

Karma has its way
Of making things
Right in the end.
Sufficient lies

To hang themselves
Given time, enough
Tall tales to drown in
Like plump frogs

Caught out
In the last fast
Downpour.
Like snakes

They spit their
Joined venom;
Like snakes
They prefer

The long grass;
How each of them
Moves like a hippo
To the waterhole,

Each with their
Swaying fat ***.

Abigail Abthing drew breath like water,
Breathed in the cold frost of morning.
Abigail knew pain like an old friend,

Knew its bite that gnawed her bones.
Always trust. Never leave it to others,
She’d say, gripping her hands together,

Biting her lips, closing her eyes.
Abigail knew cancer; knew its false promise.
Trust to none, but He who loves,

She said, feeling the burning
In her heart and head.
Abigail knew time was near,

Knew the knocking at the door
Was death; drew her last breath
Like a long forgotten word.

Christina sat
on you lap
you sat
on the low brick wall

around the playground
leaning against
the wire fence
the summer sun

warming your head
as she sat
her grey skirt
drifted up

revealing thighs
over on the playing field
Goldfinch kicked the football
but missed the goal

(two coats put down
wide spaces apart)
and pushed his hands
in the air

with frustration
she leaned in close
kissed your cheek
her hair blocking

the view of field
her hands inside
your jacket
your one hand

about her waist
the other resting
on her skirt
covered thigh

there’s no where private
for us to be
she said
no nook or cranny

to be alone
her small ******* pressed
against your chest
her warm breath

invading your ear
I’ve heard some
go into the woods
over the way

you said
no good
she replied
prefects go there

too often
to be much use
she loosened her tie
and unbuttoned

her blouse
shifting on your lap
she set herself
more comfortable

the grey skirt
riding higher
showing more thigh
she pulled the skirt

down to her knees
as a prefect went by
catching her eye
you should be

on the playing field
not here
like that together
the prefect said

looming overhead
Christina got off
your lap
and brushed down

her grey skirt
with small hands
you stood up
giving the prefect

a small smile
and wandered off
toward where
Goldfinch played

with ball
with boys
you saw Christina
saunter away

her hips swaying
her hand
giving a wave
then she was gone

amongst the other girls
who stood and stared
at boys at play
her small wet lips

imprinted
on your cheek
the kiss would be
unwashed away

you blew
from open palm
a secret kiss
to touch her

as she watched
the young boys play.

Outside Stockholm
in that base camp
having put up the tents
and unloaded the bags

and suitcases
from the top
of the truck
you walked with Moira

to the camp cafe
and order two beers
and burgers and fries
and looked out

the window
at the spread of tents
over the campsite
and Moira said

if I have to share a tent
with that Yank girl another night
I’ll go mad
her and her talk

and boasting
of how many men
she’s *******
and where she’s been

and what she’s done
and always wearing
that leather gear
all black and tight

showing her backside
and small ****
and so Moira went on
and you listened

half heartedly
wondering what Judith
was doing in Florence
and who she was with

and if she remembered you
and would bring you back
some gift like she did
from Amsterdam

that postcard
of a Chagall print
which you pinned
to your wall  

and if she so much
as boasts of her education
once more
I’ll break her

FECKING JAW
Moira said loudly
so that people nearby
turned their heads

and stared
your thoughts of Judith
blew away
and the image

of the Chagall print
pinned to your bedroom wall
maybe she’ll sleep elsewhere
you said

who else to sleep with?
she said
huh? who else is there?
what about that Yorkshire girl?

you asked
maybe she will
I’ll ask
Moira said

can only say no
and she sat
and thought
and sipped her beer

and the other people
looked away
and returned
to their conversations

and you sipped yours
taking note of her small hands
and plumpish fingers
and the small *******

pushing through
the tight tee shirt
and the small
silver crucifix

hanging down between
and her moving chin
and you wondered
how well she *******

but didn’t ask
being
you thought
rather rude.

He met Lydia
in Harper Road
near the newspaper shop
the one that had

the Rob Roy book
in the window
which he was planning to buy
with his pocket money

she looked unhappy
carrying a shopping bag
in her thin hand
where you off to?

Benedict asked
got to go home
with this
she said

lifting the bag
where you going?
she asked
seeing him carrying

his toy rifle
and wearing
his cowboy hat
going to fight

at the O.K. Corral
only it won't be
ok when I get there
he said smiling

O.K. Corral?
she said
where's that?
he pointed to a bomb site

across the road
near the doctor's surgery
oh
she said

who else is there?
a couple of other kids
he said
why don't you come along?

can't
got to take
this shopping home
and besides Mum's

in a state
what with my big sister
not coming home
until the early hours

and my dad having a row
and punch up
in the Square last night
with that man

on the 2nd balcony
can't remember his name
and Mum and him
having a row

and me trying to sleep
and Hemmy
my brother
putting an earwig

in my bed
making me scream
and Mum bellowing at me
for screaming

she stopped
and wiped her eyes
on the hem of her dress
Benedict put his arm

around her thin shoulders
I'll get your brother
for that the ***
he said

she said nothing
but sniffed
he took
the shopping bag

from her hand
and said
I'll walk you home
and after

we can come back
and have a penny drink
and lolly
in the Penny shop

what about the O.K.Corral fight?
she said
o that can wait
he said

they'll fight
amongst themselves
anyway
she nodded

and they walked back
and crossed
Rockingham Street
and into the Square

and he said
what does your sister do
until the early hours?
God knows

Lydia said
Mum says she's a *******
or something
I don't know

if it's a special
sort of job
or something
but it makes Mum annoyed

and Dad said
to leave her alone
as she's doing her bit
to keep ***** men occupied  

Benedict shrugged his shoulders
and hugged Lydia closer
so how about
that penny drink and lolly?

she nodded and sniffed  
and I forgot to tell you
Benedict said
I saw this

Daniel Boone film
the other day
up in Camberwell Green
in some flea pit

of a cinema
but it was good
and he had a rifle
but older looking

than mine
she sniffed
but looked at him
sideways

a weak smile
on her face
you should have come
he said

maybe next time I will
she said sadly
sure you will
he said

and they reached
her flat door
and she said
thank you

and he gave her
back the shopping bag
and she kissed his cheek
and went in

and he looked around  
to make sure
none of the boys about
had seen the kiss

as he had
a reputation to maintain
and kissing
or being kissed

by a girl
was maybe deemed
as a bit cissy
but none had

and he walked over
to the pram sheds
and sat on the roof
until maybe

she reappeared
happier not less so
as he thought
and feared.

Do steam trains go from Kings Cross to Scotland? Lydia asks. Her father sober smiles. Are you eloping with the Benny boy of yours? He says. Big eyes staring; blue  large marble like. Whats eloping? She asks, frowning. Running off to be married secretly, the daddy says. No, Benedict and I are only nine, so how would we be eloping? Practice run? No no, she says. Nibbles her buttered toast her mother gave. You be mindful, busy that place; crowds are there. He sips his tea. She nibbles more toast, staring at him. How are you getting there; too far to walk? Dont know; Benedictll know; he knows these things. Underground trains best, the daddy suggests. But how to get the money for fare? He asks; his eyes narrow on to her. Dont know, she says, looking at the tablecloth, patterned, birds. Has your Benny boy the money? Sober, good humoured, he smiles. Expect so, she says, doubtful. See your mother, ask her, he suggests, smiling, as if. Well, must be off, work calls, he says. Where are you today? She asks. Train driving to Bristol. Is that near Scotland? He smiles, shakes the head. No, Bristols west, Scotlands north; do you not know your geography? The daddy says. She shrugs. Sober he shakes the head. Well, Im off. See your mother about the fares. She nods; he goes taking a last sip of tea. She eats the buttered toast, cold, limp. She sits and gazes out the window. Sunny, warm looking. The birds on the grass; the bomb shelter still there. Wonders if the mother will. Money for fares. Knock at the front door. Her daddy answers. Opens up. Your Bennys here, Princess, he mocks. See you mind her, Benny boy, shes my precious, the daddy says out the door and away. Lydia goes to the door. Benny is standing there looking at her daddy walking through the Square. Her mother comes to the door wiping her hands on an apron, hair in rollers, cigarette hanging from her lip corner. Whats all this? her mother asks. Lydia looks at Benny. He gazes at the mother. Kings Cross, he says. Is he? The mother says. Train station, Benny adds unsmiling. So? We thought wed go there, Lydia says, shyly, looking at her mother. How do you think of getting there? Underground train, Daddy said. Did he? And did he offer the money? No, said to ask you. Did he? The mother pulls a face, stares at Lydia and Benny. Am I to pay his fare, too? She says, staring at Benny. No, Ive me own, he says, offering out a handful of coins. Just as well. If your daddyd not been sober youd got ****** all permission to go to the end of the road, her mother says, sharp, bee-sting words. Wait here, she says, goes off, puffing like a small, thin, locomotive. Benny stands on the red tiled step. Your dad was sober? She nods, smiles. Rubs hands together, thin, small hands. How are you? Fine, excited if we go, she says, eyeing him, taking in his quiff of hair and hazel eyes; the red and grey sleeveless jumper and white skirt, blue jeans. He looks beyond her; sees the dull brown paint on the walls; a smell of onions or cabbage. Looks past her head at the single light bulb with no light shade. Looks at her standing there nervous, shy. Brown sandals, grey socks, the often worn dress of blue flowers on white, a cardigan blue as cornflowers. They wait. Hows your mother? Ok, he replies. Your dad? Hes ok, he says. They hear her mother cursing along the passage. He says ask for this, but he never dips in his pocket I see, except for the beer and spirit, and o then it out by the handfuls. She opens her black purse. How much? Dont know. The mother eyes the boy. How much? Two bob should do. Two bob? Sure, shell give you change after, Benny says. Eye to eye. Thin line of the mothers mouth. Takes the money from her purse. Shoves in Lydias palm. Be careful. Mind the roads. Lydia looks at her mother, big eyes. Shyly nods. You, the mother points at the boy. Take care of her. Of course. Beware of strange men. I will. Stares at Benny. Hes my Ivanhoe, Lydia says. Is that so. Go then, before I change my mind. Thin lips. Large eyes, cigarette smoking. Take a coat. Lydia goes for her coat. Hows your mother? The mother asks, looks tired when I see her. Shes ok, gets tired, Benny says, looking past the mothers head for Lydia. Not surprised with you being her son. Benny smiles; she doesnt. He looks back into the Square. The baker goes by with his horse drawn bread wagon. Hemmy on the pram sheds with other kids. What you doing making the fecking coat? The mother says over her thin shoulder. Just coming, Lydia replies. Shes there coat in hand. The mother scans her. Mind you behave or youll feel my hand. Lydia nods, looks at Benny, back at the mother. Mind the trains; dont be an **** and fall on the track, the mother says, eyeing Benny, then Lydia. Shes safe with me, Benny says. Ill keep her with me at all times. Youd better. I will. Eye to eye stare. And eat something or youll faint. Ill get us something, the boy says. The mother sighs and walks back into the kitchen, a line of cigarette smoke following her. Ok? She nods. They go out the front door and Lydia closes it gently behind her, hoping the mother wont rush it open and change her mind. They run off across the Square and down the *****. Are we eloping? She asks. What? Us are we eloping? No, train watching. Why? The daddy says. Joking. Sober. Benny smiles, takes in her shy eyes. Whats eloping? He asks. Running off to marry, Daddy says. Too young. Practice run. Daddy said. Not today, Benny says, smiling, crossing a road. Looking both ways. Not now, not in our young days.

Jodie has finally fallen asleep.
Isis looks at lights moving
over the ceiling. Can hear

the breathing, the in and
out of breath. She can feel
the body just behind hers,

the hand placed on her hip,
the knees drawn up, touching
her back. Jodie and her always

need of ***. The age difference
beginning to show, she becoming
more tired more slow. Even

now she feels a guilt rise in her
like bile, the days back when
Jodie entered her bed for that

first time at the private school,
Jodie’s hands out to reach her,
she a pupil, Isis a first time teacher.

Jodie moves in her sleep, her
hand slips from the hip, rests
on the sheet. Isis watches the

patterns of light on the ceiling play.
Years ago all that. None knew,
none found out. The shared bed,

much against her conscience,
but her conscience lost, the love
and lust set in. Isis reflects, the

lights play on, the patterns move.  
Each part of her touched, kissed,
Held, licked and ******. Well and

truly loved, well and truly ******.  
Back then the tense fear and need
on both sides, the excitement

of the deeds done, fear of exposure,
the secret meetings, the passing
over of messages in corridors, quick

kisses in doorways, in those days.
Isis lies on her back, hands on her
breast, eyes watching the patterns

dance on the ceiling’s screen. Just
once more, Jodie had said, wanting
*** and kisses as before. Now all

done and time for rest, all thoughts
pushed away, closes her eyelids
like shutters on another full day.

I walk across
to Hannah's flat
in Arrol House
and knock at the door

Mrs Scott opens
the door and stands there
she's a short thin woman
with a face of granite
with a slit
where her mouth is

whit is it?
she says
her Scottish accent
rough as stone

is Hannah home?
I ask

I dunnae kinn
she replies
HANNAH
she bellows
over her shoulder
Benedcit is haur fur ye
she adds
scowling at me

jist coming
Hannah replies
from back in the flat

yoo'll hae tae bide
Mrs Scott says

and walks back inside
leaving me
on the red tiled step

I look into the interior
of the flat
and smell breakfast
having been cooked

I look back
into the Square
kids are playing
near by
on the pram sheds
and over by the wall
girls are doing handstands
their feet
against the wall
dresses falling
over their heads
showing underwear

sorry about Mum
she has a mouth on her
Hannah says
where we going?
she asks

thought we'd go
to the South Bank
see the Thames and boats
and have ice cream
I say

do I need money?
she asks

just about 2/-
I say
for bus fares
and ice cream

I'll ask Mum
for a handout
but wait for the answer

Mum have you 2/-
I can have?
Hannah asks

fa dae ye hink
Ah am Rockerfeller?
nae Ah huvnae
her mother replies

no problem
I say to Hannah
I'll have enough
for us both

are you sure?

yes don't aggravate
your mother more
than you have to

so Hannah gets her coat
and we walk off
through the Square

she's like that sometimes
Hannah says
she's as tight
as a wing nut

we walk down the *****
and up Meadow Row

I ask her how her father is

she says
he's Ok but in
the doghouse more often
as not with Mum
but he's a softy
to Mum's hardness
but Mum says
he's soft in the heed
but he's lovely really
Hannah says

-I know her old man
he's English and a bit
simple after helping
to empty out Belsen camp
in 1945 where some
he told me were
more dead as alive-

we wait at the bus stop
she with her dark hair
pony tailed
with a tartan skirt
and white blouse
and me in blue jeans
and white shirt
and quiff of brown hair
and hazel eyes

she with a budding beauty
with her mother's
touch of tongue
who if roused
could give words
full lung.

We're on a bomb site
behind the tabernacle
looking for some
ammunition for

my catapult
which I carry
in the back pocket
of my jeans

Fay is looking
amongst the debris
of old bombed
out houses

or just area  
left where
houses stood
it's a sunny day

holiday time
no school
-makes me happier-
is this one too big?

she asks
I look over
no that's a good one
I say

she brings it over
to where I stand
she holds it
between her

thin finger and thumb
and she drops it
into my palm
I weigh it up

and down then
drop it into
my pouch
-a knotted handkerchief-

she looks at me
her blue eyes
searching me
her fair hair

brought behind
her head in
a ponytail
have you ever

thought about self?
I look at her
self?
I say

what do you mean?
the I of us
what we call me
I look nonplus

and look down
for more small stones
a nun at school
said the I

in Christianity means
the I crossed out
in the form
of a cross

in other words
our self is not
more important
than that I or self

of another
and as a Christian
we should put
the self

of another first
I find a small stone
and pick it up
and finger it

so the cross is
supposed to show
self crossed out?
I say uncertainly

she looks at the stone
I'm holding
yes that's what
she was saying

self denial I think
is what she meant
Fay says
scratching her head

this nun at school
does she ever
tell jokes?
Fay frowns

no not as far
as I've heard
well I could
tell you one

O'Brien told me
but it's not for girls
to hear
not girls

as good as you
I say
Daddy says jokes
are sinful to say

and to hear Fay says
when I innocently
told him one
the other year

a girl at school told me
he spanked me
and said never
to hear or say jokes

ever again
what was the joke?
I ask
shouldn't say

she says
there's only you
and me here
no one will know

if you tell me
except God
and I guess He's
heard it before

I say
she looks at me
her blue eyes
staring

ok but don't
tell Daddy
I told you
she says

I promise not to tell
your old man
I say
well a man took his wife

to the cinema
and as they waited
in the queue
a man in front of them

passed wind
and the husband
said to the man
how dare you

pass wind
in front of my wife
and the man said
sorry I didn't know

it was her turn
I laugh and so does she
and I like how
her eyes sparkle

when she laughs
and her face lights up
like a summer day
then she's looks

at her hands
that was good
I say
but it's sinful

she says
but the brightness
in her face and eyes
didn't go away.

She plunges into the hot water
and begins to scrub. Brush and
soap on skin. She wants him off
and out of her. Undo him from her.

Unkiss his kisses, untouch his touches.
She breathes in. She reeks, stinks
of him. He seems to have penetrated
every orifice on her body. She pushes

herself under the water, holds herself
there, opens her eyes even the sting
brings no purification. She sits up and
holds the sides of the bath. Calm down

she tells her shaking hands and legs
but they disobey and carry on like
disobedient children in play. She tries
to think of other things. Think of

somewhere nice, some time once
enjoyed, some pleasure once had,
sipping of the best wine, greedy
eating of caviar or grape. But no.

Everything is focused on him and
the ****. She rubs and scrubs until
she’s red and raw. Stop stop her
inner voice screams. Nothing is

what it seems. He pushes his way
even into her every thought now.
He seeps into every pore. The water
fails to clean. She sits there naked,

undone, brush in hand, hair in a mess.
This is not real she says, but knows
it is, she in the bath, wet, raw, sore
and sullied. Yes that’s a word mother

would have used: sullied. Tainted,
tarnished, degraded or as Mother
would have said: dishonoured. She
focuses on each aspect of her flesh

as if seen for the first time. What
you focus on is your reality. Who said
that? Does it matter now? Dostoevsky?
The Idiot, that book. Who cares who

said what. The water is no longer hot.
He is still on skin and in orifice in spite
of the rubs and scrubs and tears and curses.
No longer the innocent, no more the

sipping of wine or eating of grape.
Just him and memory of the ****.

Father Joseph sat in the dark confessional in stunned silence. Either the young girl had told him a pack of lies or she was a budding Lucrezia Borgia. He fiddled with his thumbs; threw the sins she’d confessed around in his head like a juggler, wondering where the extra ***** had come from. It was that Moran girl he was sure. The things she’d said. The times and manners, he mused. On the other side of the confessional, Mary Moran knelt with her eyes closed. She searched through her mind for any sins she may have forgotten to relate like one sorting through a laundry basket for soiled garments for the wash. No, she could remember nothing else. That was it. At least as far as she could recall. She fidgeted on her knees. Scratched her thigh. Breathed heavy against the metal grille. She smelt the scent of polish and after-shave; the odd smell of mothballs that her Da’s suits had when he brought them out for funerals or weddings. She opened her eyes and stared at the semi-dark. Had the priest fallen asleep? she mused, moving from knee to knee, wondering if he’d be long, she was dying for a ***; wanting to get out in the air and light again. She heard the rustle of cloth and sighs, a slight cough, a deeper breath. The priest spoke softly and said things that floated around Mary’s head like smoke; disappeared into the dark corners of the confessional without penetrating her ears or mind. If she were a daughter of his, he mused, in between words of absolution, gazing at the outline of the girl through the grille, letting the familiar words leave his lips, hoping the Crucified was listening and that he’d not be a father to a child like that for all the holy water in Rome. Mary squeezed her knees together; bit her lower lip in desperation. If the father didn’t get a move on there’d be a puddle on the floor; she’d not be the one to clear it up, so she wouldn’t. Did I tell about the truancy? she mused, squeezing the knees tighter, thinking of abandoning the confessional for a quick run; risk purgatory or worse, she couldn’t give a fresh fig. Father Joseph paused; sniffed the air; fiddled with his thumbs again. Was she still there? he wondered, listening to the silence, peering through the grille, making out the outline of the girl’s head. Mary waited for the penance. It reminded her of waiting for her Da to home after her mother threatened to tell him all she’d done; the wait; the tanned backside; the dark room. The priest spoke. His words cutting the air like Sister Thomas’s ruler in mathematics, when she waved it madly above her head if the girls were talking in class. The first chapter of St John’s Gospel. No Aves or Pater Nosters. She sighed. Bit her lip. Rose to her feet, ****** her hand between her thighs. Muttered a Thank You. Pushed opened the door into the church and, after a smile at Magdalene in the pews, walked at a fast pace down the side aisle to the lavatory outside in the passageway beside the statue of St Joseph which lingered by door. Father Joseph stared into the darkness; listened to the silence. The girl had gone. Her scent lingered. Her words hung in his head like harpies. He breathed in deeply. Thanked God for celibacy. Awaited the next girl. Hoped she was a minor saint in the making and not another Lucrezia Borgia and a mouthful of sins. Mary sat in the cubicle and stared at the graffiti on the door of the toilet. References to the priest and Sister Luke were scrawled in red ink; some remarks about Brian Brady, which she hoped, were not true, at least she didn’t recall as true. The smell of after-shave and incense lingered in her nose; the first chapter of St John’s Gospel loomed large; and the sense of relief flowed through her as she smiled at the memory of the priest’s silence after the words about Brady’s hands and intentions in the woods a few days back. That was worth any amount of chapters from gospels or a mouthful of Aves from noon until night, she mused. She smiled; recited a whispered Ave; closed her eyes to the days’ light and the noise from the playground outside the window.

She sat on her bed
looking out the window.

Hannah looked at
the fulling rain.

Her mother passed by
the bedroom door
and looked in.

Whit ur ye daein'?
Her mother said.

Looking at the rain,
Hannah replied.

Ye can help me
wi' the washin',
her mother said.

Do I have to help
with the washing?

Her mother stared
at her
Whit ur ye
waitin' fur?

I'm waiting
for Benedict,
Hannah said,
gazing at her
mother's stern gaze.

O heem th'
sassenach loon,
her mother said
and walked off
down the passage.

Hannah waited.

She'd was pushing
her manners close
to the limits.

Once upon a time
her mother would
have slapped her
behind for talking so,
but now at 12 years
old her mother dithered
and set her tongue
to work instead.

She eyed the rain
running down the glass.

She could hear
her mother in the kitchen
banging pots and pans.

Then a knock at the door.

Benedict no doubt.

Gie th' duir, Hannah,
her mother bellowed.

Hannah went to the door
and let Benedict in.

He was wet, his hair
clung to his head
and his clothes were damp.

Got caught
in the downpour,
he said,
shaking his head.

Hannah smiled.

I'll get you a towel
to dry your hair,
she said.

She got him a towel
from the cupboard
and he began
to rub his hair.

We can't go out in this,
Hannah said,
have to stay here
and we can play games.

He rubbed his hair dry,
took off his wet coat
and stood by her bed.

What games?
he said.

Ludo? Chess?
Draughts? She suggested.  

Her mother came back
to the door of the bedroom.

Ye swatch dreich,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict.

He looked at Mrs Scot
and then at Hannah.

Mum said you look drenched,
Hannah said.

O right, yes, I am,
he replied and smiled.

Mrs Scot didn't
smile back.

Dornt sit oan
th' scratcher,
Mrs Scot said icily.

Mum said don't sit
on the bed,
Hannah said.

Mrs Scot went
off muttering.

Where shall I sit?
He asked.

We'll sit on the floor,
Hannah said,
and play chess.

He nodded his head,
his quiff of hair
in a damp mess.

Early morning
book on Schopenhauer
under your arm
cigarettes

in your pocket
you sat in one
of the cafes
in Dubrovnik

having ordered
a coffee
and lit up
to smoke

the book
put on the table
the ashtray
set so

you observed
the passing people
the females mostly
the gentler ***

as is said
the sway of skirt
or dress
the fine legs

the shape of foot
the figures
slim or plump
the mental study

of the shape of ***
the tightness
of ****
and all the while

at the back
of the mind
the idea of God
the faith required

seemingly lacking
the St Augustine view
wanting to be saved
from sin

but not just yet
the waiter
brought coffee
and cake

just the nibble
for the breakfast’s sake
and you thought
on the night before

the walk in the City
the lights lit up
the passing crowds
the concert

some pianist
playing Chopin
you and your brother
side by side

taking it all in
making the most of
and the indulgence
of wine

and the chatting up
of the waitresses
at the hotel
with no success

and you opened
the Schopenhauer book
the print of page
the scatter of words

ideas too deep
for the morning sun
you closed it up
and sipped the coffee

took a drag
on the cigarette
viewed the cute ***
as it passed you by

summer dresses
short skirts
tight tops
in all colours

shoes or bare feet
to please the eye
and the idea of God
observing

listening in
secretly pleading
maybe you do
or do not

to be absolved
from sometime
the deeper sin.

Henry was walking
with his wife
along the sidewalk
in the city

looking for some cafe
she knew
and wanted to go
when he saw this young dame

in a wheelchair
with long hair
and fine features
pushing the wheels

with her hands
and she had these
leather fingerless gloves
and he thought

who puts her in
and out of the chair?
who holds her close
to them and smells

the shampoo
in her hair
feels her small *******
against them as they hold?

who gets her in
and out of the tub
or in and out of bed
who washes her back

or wipes her ***?
She had wheeled herself by
but not before
he’d taken in all

that he could
the jeans she wore
the white tee-shirt
the black shoes

the pretty lips
the way she gripped
and pushed the wheels
his wife was yakking

about some dress
she’d seen
in some store
and wanted to go

and look and maybe buy
but the passing dame
had caught his eye
and he wondered how

she got to be in the chair
accident or from birth
disease or some beat up
that went wrong?

He couldn’t ask that’d
be too rude and besides
she was well on
her way now

and his wife was striding
on with determined gaze
but he couldn’t get
the dame out of his head

her sitting there
with her long flowing hair
and those eyes
and the constant questions

of who did what for her
and how did she
do this and that
and who lifted her up

and out? was it some
strong guy some
dedicated hunk?
Or maybe her mother

and father did the job
of getting her in shape
and bathed
he thought

and did she *****
like other dames
have some fond lover
who played the game?  

All the questions
and no answers
made him wonder more
even later in the cafe

sipping the his latte
while his wife yakked away
and even later that night
in bed besides his wife

who snored
he pictured the dame
beside him
a paraplegic model

or an art piece
that he adored.

There were bright lights
from the ceiling
once it got
dark outside

and when big Ted
brought in
the sandwiches
for tea or supper

or whatever
they called it
I sat next to Christine
on one

of the double sofas
and she looked
at the plates
of sandwiches

that were laid
on the table
and said
usual boring stuff

I’m not eating
I’d rather starve
big Ted said
O come on

young lady
we've got
to get you well again
and out of this ward

he offered her
a ham sandwich
real ham
he said

not that tin stuff
she looked at him
don't fancy meat
she said

he took up
a cheese sandwich
Cheddar
he said

good stuff
I’ve tasted it
downstairs
in the kitchen

I could eat a horse
I said
taking the cheese sandwich
no horse sandwiches today

Ted said smiling
Christine gazed at me
then at the plate
of sandwiches

it's an effort to eat
she said
I should be coming home
from my honeymoon now

if the **** hadn't left me
at the altar
done my head in
Ted raised his eyebrows

is there anything
I can get you other
than sandwiches?
they've got

sausage rolls downstairs
all dressed
in my wedding dress
with flowers

and waiting
and he doesn't show
I take a ham sandwich
his loss

I said
he must be missing a *****
not to wed you
she gazed at me

then took
a cheese sandwich
and ate
Ted frowned

and walked off
to get the teapot
and coffee pots
and cups

from the trolley
you'll find someone
I said
don't think

I want anyone now
think I'll become a nun
or missionary
in some far off land

sexless and taking care
of others
she sat eating
in silence for a moment

or two
not sure
I could go long
without ***

come to think of it
she took a ham sandwich
with one hand
and placed a hand

on my thigh
with that dull light
in her green blue
left eye.

Where he said he’d meet
You, on the beach, Lake
Michigan. But he

Never showed; you just
Waited until the
Tide went out and the

Sun lowered itself
In the sky like a
Fat lady on her

Chamber ***. There were
Few people on the
Beach, even less when

You realized that he
Wasn’t going to
Come and turned for home.

You’d worn your new coat
And hat, had your hair
Done, your face made up,

All for that. Him not
Showing. The wind blew
At your clothes, lifting

The hem of your long
Dress, revealing your
Ankles and shoes. You

Watched the sea and wide
Horizon, waiting
Patiently, smelling

The sea salt, hearing
The roar of waves on
The sandy shore. Still

He never showed up.
Never came, despite
His kind promises,

Despite all the hot
******* the day
Before. All lies it

Seemed, him, his soft words,
And his deep blue eyes,
Deceiving beneath

The shell. There was a
Chill, a biting of
The flesh, a nipping

Of the thin fingers;
But hope was still there
Inside, despite all

That, like smoke hangs in
The still dry air, like
An echo lingers.

Anne crutched her way
through the narrow path
and back gate behind you
on to the side path

that led to the beach
the sky was overcast
she moved up beside you
as you stood there

looking at the horizon
look at the sea
and sky and gulls
Skinny Boy

look at that wildness
breathe in the air
she said
fill your ****** lungs

with it
you breathed in deeply
smell of sea salt
filled you

if I had both my legs
I’d go out there
and swim
she said

she moved forward
until her foot
and crutches
touched the start

of the sand
come on Boy
breath it in
you breathed in

deep again
she stood there
her green skirt
billowing in the wind

her dark hair
blown about
this is ******* life
this is it

all I want now
is a tall ship
to sail her by
or so

the ****** poet
said somewhere
she said
you looked at her

standing like
some captain
of a ship
her skirt rising

and falling
carried by the wind
now and then
her stump showed

and her other thigh
with her white leg
what do you think Boy?
good huh?

yes
you said
breezy and fresh
you stood

trying to keep
your balance
your short trousers
moving in the breeze

the white tee shirt flapping
she crutched herself
onto the sand more
you followed

moving near her
she gripped
the crutches firm
we found that fish

on the beach
up there
you said
she looked

where you pointed
yes and they cooked it
for dinner next day
she said

and it was ******* rank
you laughed
and she grinned
it was up there

by that wave breaker
that you kissed me
she said
you made me

you replied
well you enjoyed it
didn’t you?
you nodded

the wind
carried her voice away
her words
were broken up

individual words
came here
and there
then away again

she looked up
at the darkening sky
o hell
she said

here comes
the ******* rain.