Of course there was ***
Before 63 and the Beatles
First LP. You found some

Proof. Grandmother kept
That quiet. The photo was
Tucked away between pages

Of a Percy Shelley. One lives
And learns. New knowledge
For old. Who was the man

Kissing Grandmother’s neck
And embracing her fondly?
Passionate whoever he was

And she enjoying it quite a
Bit, and scantly dressed at
That, you muse, turning the

Photo over to the back. In
Fading ink, some pen had
Written, you were never shy

And always bitten. What a
Way to be remembered, you
Smile, tucking the photo back

Between pages of the book
And put it in your pocket for
Safekeeping. You’ll keep it

Safe all right, tucked beneath
The pillow where you’re sleeping.

Where you been?
Nima asks

train was late
I reply

the ward smells
of *****
and bodies
and nurses
disinfect
up the nose

Nima sits
in a chair
by her bed
in a white
dressing gown
her bare feet
on the floor

what'd you bring?

cigarettes
chocolate
usual stuff
I tell her
putting them
on her bed

need a drag
she utters

so we go
out of large
French windows
and sit down
in two chairs
in the grounds

we light up
cigarettes
and exhale

how's it going?
I ask her

miss my fix
and hot ***
she mutters
between drags
miss music
miss Hendrix

she looks out
at the grounds
the tall trees
the bushes
a porter
walking by
two doctors
over the way
talking loud

glad you came
she tells me

glad to come
I reply

she looks thin
her hair lank
no make up
cigarette
held between
*******

she tells me
her parents
didn't show
had to go
off some place
with others
Nima exhales

you know what?
they're doctors
yet don't come
to see me

I don't know
what to say
so I say
not a thing

watch a bird
swooping low
gracefully
black winged bird
with large beak

I need ***
nima says
suddenly
I need you
inside me

her dark eyes
eat me in

no place though
I tell her

she inhales
the white smoke
blows it out
making rings

someday soon
she utters
in London
in some room
some hotel
if they let
me go out
next weekend
with a pass

let's hope so
I reply
studying
the sun's light
in her right
gazing eye.

Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.

Nima holds
in her palm
the capsules
the doctor
prescribed her

from a glass
she slowly
sips water

meant to help
my drug
addiction
she tells me

and does it?
I ask her

does it what?

does it help?

wouldn't know
guess it does

she shows me
her pink palm
capsules gone

when can you
go back home?

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

we sit on
seats outside
the mental
hospital

want a smoke?
she asks me

I’ve my own
smoke your own
I tell her

she lights up
then lights mine

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

what order?

have a fix
then have ***

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

do you like?

artistic
Renoir like
I reply

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

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

Isis knows
the finger

going down
her bony

spine slowly,
belongs to

(without doubt)
her girlfriend

young Jodie.
The finger

moves between
the valley

of her ***,
circling

the soft fuzz,
hovering

just above,
predator

of deep love,
moistening

the fruit cup,
wet mouthing

the dark dugs,
tongue licking

the milk mounds,
ear to breast

hearing soft
the beat thump

of her heart
as her thighs

spread wide like
the Red Sea,

and the hushed
voice and sigh

like buzzing
of the wild
honey bee.

The young monks
pick fruit from bushes
their tonsured heads
and bent backs
offered to
the afternoon sun.

I mowed the grass
by the monks cemetery
with the old petrol mower
ploughing through
the molehills
scattering earth
in all directions.

I recall her saying
kiss me here
and I had
and felt glad.

George,
the novice monk,
laughs softly
into the huge napkin
at lunch
in the refectory,
large a bedsheets,
he said.

I liked the shaking
of his tonsured head.

Helen sat next to me
on the grass
outside Banks House

I was attempting to open
a bottle of lemonade

can I have a drop?
she asked

sure
once I get the thing open
I said

she looked around her
then over at the coal wharf
where coal men
were filling up
their trucks and wagons
with sacks of coal

I unscrewed
the lid of the bottle
and handed her
the bottle

she took it
with both hands
and took a swig
then another

pearls of sweat
sat on her forehead
her brown wet hair stuck
to her face at the sides
it was a hot summer

here
she said
handing me the bottle

I wiped the top
and took a swig

that's better
she said
I was really thirsty
my tongue felt
like the bottom
of my baby sister's pram

I handed her the bottle again
she wiped the top
and swigged some more

I watched her
as she drank
then looked away
and looked at the flat's
behind us
no curtains moved
no curtain twitchers
looked at us

she gave me back the bottle
and I ******* the lid
back on
and placed it
beside me on the grass

I’m getting
a new school dress tomorrow
she said
Mum said I’ve outgrown
my old one

I gazed at her
she was wearing
a tomato stained white blouse
and grey pleated skirt
white ankle socks
and black scuffed shoes

I may get new blouses
if they can afford them
otherwise I’ll have to wear
those second hand ones
my mum got
from a jumble sale
not that I mind of course
but new ones
are always better

I took a white paper bag
from the grass
and said
want a bun?

is it fresh?

this morning's

OK thank you
and she took a bun
from the bag
and ate into it

I took one
and ate it
piece by piece
picking out the currants

I need shoes too
she said
but don't expect
to get them yet awhile
will have to
make them do

a horse drawn
coal wagon
moved out
of the coal wharf

Helen still talked

I watched the horse
trotting along the road
he didn't seem strained
pulling the heavy load.

Helen walked
from her home
to the bomb

site where the
boy Benny
had told her

after school
he would be
off Meadow

Row behind
the old green
grocer's shop

but when she
got there he
was no where

in sight so
she was scared
-after all

tramps often
slept or hid
in the bombed

out buildings-
where was he?
she muttered

what to do?
she looked out
over the

large bomb site
biting her
finger nails

thinking that
maybe a
***** would jump

out at her
then she saw
a figure

come out of
one of the
bombed ruins

she stared hard
panicking
thinking she'd

wet herself
when Benny
waved his hand

and called out
you came then?
-he sometimes

stated the
obvious-
I wondered

where you were
she muttered
he tapped his

6 shooter
silvery
looking toy

gun in his
black holster
on his belt

looking out
for bad guys
he replied

she was glad
it was him
not a *****

want some chips?
he asked her
we can share

I've got coins
sufficient
although she'd

just had tea
she nodded
so they walked

to Neptune's
fish and chip
shop and bought

6d worth
and stood out
side the shop

and shared them
watching life
rushing by

both of them
beneath an
evening sky.

I could have counted
the buttons

on her green
school cardigan;

could laid my head
on her soft lap,

on the green skirt;
gazed up

at the blue skies;
seen her

looking down
at me,

her eyes
dark pearls

in white cases;
but the school bell

had tolled
for the end

of recess,
and we had

to go back in.
The afternoon

was numbed
by her absence,

the teacher
rattling on

about some
scientific wonder,

left me out
in the cold,

seeing
in my mind's eye,

she,
her beauty,

her eyes,
her smile,

against the backdrop
of a bright blue sky.

She can etch with
her finger the place
he lay on the bed;
see the indentations

where his head was
on the pillow. She can
smell his hair oil, his
body sweat mixed with

the lavender water.
She can close her eyes
and see him still lying
there, can sense his

presence, feel his finger
(ghostly) run along
her spine as she bends
over the bed, to sniff the

pillowcase. With eyes
closed she can pretend
so much, can imagine all
sorts of things, him doing

what he did best, and she
liking, wanting it all again,
just the once, just one more
lovely time. She opens her

eyes, just the indentation,
the smell, the faint stain of
hair oil. She lays on the bed
where he once lay, shuts

her eyes again, puts her
hands down by her sides,
imagines him kissing her
lips, wet and warm, his

tongue protruding her
mouth, touching her teeth,
moving within. She pretends
he is running his hands along

her thighs, lifting her dress,
moving between her legs, his
lips pressing hers, the bed
moving, her body alive again,

him there, she holding on to
him, wanting him to stay, not
go and away. She opens her
eyes and he’s gone, just her

alone, lying still, motionless.
The spider on the ceiling of
her room, black and plump
as a pudding, hanging there,

suspended. All thoughts of her
lost love momentarily ended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had fooled them all again;
Hoodwinked them into thinking
She'd be safe outside the locked

Ward; and taking Bronston's cut
Throat razor (he thought he hid
It well) she slit her wrists till

Fountains poured red across her
Clothes and all around; and there
Was that buzzing sound; that voice

Screaming loud inside her head:
I'm free again, free from pain,
Echoing through her freaked out

Brain, slithering along her
Jagged veins, her eyes gazing
At the coming storm of white

And blues; the nurses cursing;
The docs crestfallen over
Their soiled angel, splattering

The room with her crimson rush,
Without care or word or God
****** curse or a shameful blush.

She doesn't know
what time
his school bus arrives
but she waits

by the school gates
nervously
biting her nails
looking at the place

the buses come
other kids arrive on foot
to school
but no bus

as yet
and Sheila starts
to wonder
what she'll say

when the bus arrives
and the boy John
descends
and she there

facing him
and he'll look at her
and will he remember
the day before

and her asking
if she could hang
around with him?
the sky looks overcast

dark clouds
she hopes it will not rain
or she'll not be
on the playing field

to see him lunchtime
or anytime
she hopes it will
stay fine

what's the matter
with you this morning?
her mother had asked
over breakfast

you look like you've
found sixpence
and lost a pound
nothing she had said

trying not
to be too anxious
about meeting
the boy John

even as she washed
and dressed that morning
he was there
in her thoughts

and now as she waits
by the gates
kids pass her by
gawking at her

standing there
with her thin wire glasses
and metal grip
at the side

of her hair
then a school bus comes
towards the school
and her nerves take hold

and she stares and looks
for the boy John
and what she thinks
are his good looks.

She sits on her bed
brushing her long brown hair
with the brush
her mother gave her.

She has had a bath,
needed after being
with him,
the way he was,

and for so long.
The bath so relaxing,
the water just right,
being able to lay there,

water over her,
suds from the borrowed
bath stuff( Gabrielle
need never know),

she feeling the water
fondling about her *******,
washing him off,
dissolving him

in the suds.
She brushes him out
of her hair,
each long stroke

and a bit more of him
is gone.
She stops and thinks.
Mid air the brush

and hand stay.
Was it always that way?
No, there was a time
when seeing him

was a pleasure,
she actually used to get
excited when he
was to come,

actually looked forward
to his presence,
his love making,
the things he used to do,

the way he did them.
Now, she dreads him
being there,
making love to her,

his fingers in her hair.
She brushes again,
downward strokes,
takes out the knots

that gather at the ends.
Was it ever love?
Was it other than physical?
Just a game of the ******?

She puts down the brush
and gazes at herself
in the old fashion mirror.
Still passable,

still presentable,
still has it in bucketfuls
as he used to say.
But, no,

she supposes not,
never really got to her heart,
never quite made it that far.
Liar, she tells herself,

you loved him more
than any other,
used to lay awake
at night thinking of him

and his next call,
it wasn't just *** after all.
No, I suppose not,
there was that strong

element of love,
that other than just
the physical,
other than the ******.

But that makes it worse
not better,
the fact I loved him once,
she tells herself,

takes it deeper,
takes it to the core
of the heart,
that place where each

string of nerve,
each particle of being
is torn open
like a ripe fruit

and ****** dry.
She's just had ***
with him,
just the physical,

just the lying down
and taking it bit.
Now, she loves him not,
the lying, cheating ****.

Maybe
it was the way
she sat
or the way

her head
titled slightly
or the promise
in her eyes,

dark and mysterious,
that outshone
the midday sun
on the school field;

I sitting there
next to her,
half shy
half opening up,

talking the talk,
eyeing her over,
taking in
her eyes,

the nose,
the lips partly open,
tongue moving
just along the edge.

Maybe
it was the scent
she wore,
applely,

flowery smell;
her small *******,
pushing against
the white blouse,

the buttons
under pressure;
her hands on
her thighs at rest;

her dark hair,
brushed just so,
and she spoke,
but I half listened,

half not,
caring not
how well she sat,
she cool,

I, oh boy,
so hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All or nothing at all
her father had said
and it seemed right

until she met Harpoon
and he seemed her
Mr Right the one she

had been waiting for
the one she’d dreamed
about but then it all

went wrong and he
became Mr Wrong
and oh yes that was

the downfall that was
the way to her deep
depression and that

episode in the bath
when she tried to
drown herself as her

mother had before her
and she discovered her
as a child coming home

from school and the
door was ajar and when
she went in there was

her mother with her
wrists slit and blood
and her mother drowned

and dead and now sitting
there in her mother’s
chair her father some

place her husband poking
some other and all or
nothing at all seemed all

there was left apart from
the few books on the shelf
the Bill Burroughs her mother

had read and left and that
Bukowski book she’d found
in some second shop and the

battered Bible which her
father had beat her about
the head and backside with

as a child when her father
had been boozing or she
had been sinful or wild.

They were dropped off
at the church
like the others
ready for choir practice

but they held back
and crept into
the front porch
to be alone
for a few moments

the voices
of the others
died down and away

Yehudit gazed out
into the evening sky
feeling Benny near her
you do love me
don't you?
she asked

sure I do
why ask?
he said

you seemed
distant today
at school
and when I looked over
at you in class
you looked away

he gazed at her
outline in the door way
of the porch
you know
how it is
Rowland was saying
how's your love life?
and all that stuff
and I was trying
to make it seem
I didn't have one
and wanted
just be free
of his words
and jest
I guess

she looked back
at him
aren't I worth
getting jest about?
if you loved me
it wouldn't matter
she said

I know
you're right
but us guys
are stupid at times
we don't think
in your league

girls like
to be seen
to be loved
not just words
she said

a bell rang
from the tower

must go
she said

wait
he said
look I’m sorry
I made a mistake
I do love you
and it's more
than words

she walked out
of the porch
and into the evening
semi-dark
looked at the stars
and moon

the next time
I look at you
in class
at least smile
at me
she said

sure I will
he said

she kissed his cheek
and ran off
around the back

and he stood
watching the moon
and stars

and her footsteps
faded into the night
and he thought
she's right.

You don't think
it's going to happen to you,
she says,
you think it only happens

to other people,
to people out there,
strangers, or friends
whose loved one

has died, and you
are just an on-looker
to their grief;
then it happens to you,

right out of the blue,
like someone
has dragged your heart
right out of your breast

and dangles it there
before your eyes.
She looks at her hands,
turns them over,

stares at her palms.
Other people's grief
is like an echo,
she says,

but your own
is a loud scream within
that vibrates
along your nerves

and in your head
with the words louder
and louder:
they are dead.

She looks out the window,
birds sing in the trees
out there, the sky
is an odd blue,

the sun dull
as if punctured by a pin.
You can sympathise
with another's grief,

but it doesn't really
get to you,
doesn't dig deep
into you and tear out

your inner works;
it may hurt a little,
may tingle along nerves,
may unsettle,

but when it is yours,
when it is your own
deep down
gut wrenching grief,

it's as if someone
has torn you open
and pulled you
to pieces, bit by bit,

day after day,
month after month;
and just when you think,
maybe, the wound

will heal a little,
a word or song
or sight of a photo
or such and it's

back open bleeding
and sore and deep
and you don't weep,
you utter a deep

primitive scream.
She sighs,
looks at me,
her eyes dark,

yet empty,
yet full like a dark
uninviting pool.
I miss him,

she says,
miss him
like a limb
amputated roughly;

like my heart
has been ripped from me
and is held before me
just out of reach.

He was my one,
my reason for being;
now he's gone,
and I am undone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is
the open book

her inquisitive look
the way

with one stockinged leg
hanging over

the arm
of the chair

the centre parted
wavy dark hair

and he sitting
across from her

at the writing desk
writing to his mother

saying how good
he was being

all alone in Paris
reading the books

she’d sent
paying his way

paying the rent
eating out

working in
getting

the studying done
leaving the girls alone

no late nights
no *****

no cigarettes
no sadness

or regrets
and looking up

from the letter paper
seeing her opposite

with his book
open on her lap

her black
laddered stockings

the way she sits
invitingly

him smiling
dotting the i’s

and crossing
the t’s

periods at the end
whispering

to the dame
be there soon

kisses on the bottom
of the letter

for mother
and the dame’s

(bottom)
maybe later

letting the ink dry
imaging what

beneath
the dame’s dress

and underclothes
may wait

and his
deep sigh.

Shlomit remembers
the slaps at the back

of the legs by Mother’s
wet hand. Sins must

be punished, Father said,
lounging in the armchair

by the fire. She had
asked for more pudding,

milky, white, warm to
fill her small stomach,

the stinging hot flesh,
Mother’s hand striking

slaps one, two and three.
Straight to bed, none of

the stories, no supper,
no tea. She recalls that

dark room, the cold bed,
the smell of nightclothes

over worn, infrequently
washed, the aching head.

She remembers that more
than once, always that

hand wet, flesh exposed,
the slaps thrice, painfully

given, not nice. She recalls
the hand marks left behind,

red on white, carves or
thighs, the stinging sensation,

the shame of it all and them
arguing down the darken hall.

Derek said
she smells peculiar
and don't she's
brush her hair?

I was standing with him
in the playground
by the steps
that went down

into the bombed out
cellar of a house
which was where
the playground was

I like her
I said
watching her walk
hesitantly around

the groups
of boys and girls
in game or conversation
bet she's got

lice or fleas
or whatever
he said
she's got an old man

who beats her
and a mother
who doesn't care
I said

well she could at least
wash properly
he said
despite the hardship

and such
my mother
let her bathe
at our place

the other Sunday night
I said
didn't find
no lice or fleas

she had said
just dirt and grime
you didn't bathe
with her then?

Derek said laughing
no she bathed alone
my mother making sure
she was washing ok

Derek looked over at her
still smells peculiar
he said
it's the soap

we gave her
to take home
I guess
fancy a game

of cards?
he said
taking  football cards
out of his back pocket

sure
I said
and so we went down
by a vacant wall

and flicked our cards
to see got nearest
the wall and see
who won

whose cards
but out
of the corner
of my eye

I saw Ingrid
walking about
the playground
her dull flower

patterned dress
having seen
better days
her scuffed shoes

shyly making tread
should be with her
I thought
but carried on

playing cards
with Derek instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

She shyly smiled.

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

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

Sheila watched him go.

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

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

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

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

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

Watching a woman
eating a muffin
today at the café

I thought myself
viewing a show
of performance art,

the way
she broke it
apart

in her hands
and lifted
a small piece

to her mouth
and ate,
wiping

the crumbs away,
with the finger
just so

and she so
unaware
she was being viewed,

her art performance
receiving
a silent applause.

I rise with the morning bell, said Sister Agnes; I hear it now in my ears. It rings in the ears and heart. The window shows dawn just about to come over the cloister wall like a mischievous child about to play forbidden games. I sing in choir with my voice absorbed by the voices of others and the walls of the church. I walk the cell like one waiting to die; listen to the birdsong outside like one wanting new life or life renewed. Sister Blaise is in the cloister garth walking with the birds, the morning chill resting on her black serge shoulder. I watch her walk; her feet tread like one on eggshells. Her hands hidden beneath her blackbird breast, her head bowed like one at prayer. She has birds at her feet, St Francis like. I shall leave her, kneel in prayer, and climb the stairway to contemplation. My father's tears settle on my sight; his voice broken; his eyes looking out at the garden where once we walked. He would have had me stay at home; dry old-maid fashion at his beck and call day and night as my mother did until cancer dragged her weeping to the far beyond. I shut my lids against the dawn; press my lids like one seeking blindness to the harsh day's light. My brother, George, sits in some Paris café talking of art and painting his oil-drench canvases in his back street studio. Father talks of him as one who is lost. Both of us are lost to him, each in their own way. George cares not; his art and women are his all. Thoughts push their way through the curtains of my prayer; they are rude and unclean; they are ill bred like the children my mother despised. I rise from prayer like one defeated. The light from the dawn blesses me with warmth; my flesh touched like one in love. I look at Sister Blaise and her birds; her hands are open like one crucified. Her rosary hangs from her belt; a thousand prayers cling to each bead. Last night I saw her kiss the feet of the stone ******; lay her hand on the Saviour's head. Holiness nests in her heart like a white bird in a dark bush; she shall hold me in my dim hours. The bell rings once more; its echo vibrates my ears and heart. I was happy when I entered your house; your handmaiden shall attend your needs. Prayers escape me; liturgies are my food and drink; my beads shall be my stones of pain. My aches shall be the nails to crucify me in my dark hours; my Christ bleeds in my monthly death. All shall be forgiven. The stones shall break my bones; the words pierce my fleshy heart. I shall go now; descend the stairs for dawn time prayer. Night flees me like one unfaithful to a lover's kiss.  I come.  My bridegroom

Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.

She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses

herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises

from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours

cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash

me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.

She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,

rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.

Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the

nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed

against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens

the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross

on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one

side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers

growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun

is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.  

Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin

to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never

make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never

told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.

Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.

See my bridegroom comes,
said Sister Clare, He comes
swift as birds of Spring, His
voice echoes within, His

touch wakes me from deep
slumber, unfetters me from
my sad sins; His eyes watch
me, they run over me like

flowing water, look into my
soul like dawn's light; He is
my keeper, my protector, His
hand caresses me in my deepest

darkness, His fingers raise
my chin, lift my head, His
fingers touch my heart, wake
me from my selfness, my

obsession with my me; He
comes into my heart, He is
the kisser of life, the waker
of sleepers in the grave; I

wait for Him in the night
when the darkness embraces,
seek His company when
demons touch and ******;

He is my bridegroom, my
love, I seek Him out like
one for water as I thirst,
I listen for his footsteps in

the break of dawn, I kiss
Him as one kisses one's
deepest love, I am only
happy when He is near,

when His voice awakes
me. He is my safe ship
out in the dark deep sea.

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

View of the street
Even through the
Net curtain, though

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

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

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

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

Offensive, the
Blue eyes of him
Almost burnt you

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

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

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

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

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

But you still wait.
The frailty
Of most human

Relations and
Conversations;
Love so fragile,

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

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

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

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

Still you sit and
Watch and wait and
Remember past

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

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

I am a sitter at windows, said Lucia;
I am a thinker of sad thoughts, a gazer
at stars and moon and the bright hot
afternoon sun. My thoughts taunt me

like bullying children, they repeat
words and images and strings of verbal
abuse like repetitive *****. I sit at
the window with folded arms, my ***

numb on the window ledge, my eyes
peering through the netted curtains,
taking in the sights, the people, the cats
and dogs, the cars and buses, the odd

cyclists, the women pushing prams,
children crying at the side. I see and
know my childhood ghosts, the locked
doors, the no supper nights, the starving

rumblings of an empty stomach, words
bellowed through the doors by angry
parents. I am one who stares from windows,
one who snoops through netted curtains,

taking in the sights, hearing imperfectly
the outer sounds, the stolen kisses and hugs
from teenage loves, the backyards fondles,
*** on the cheap, lives, loves, kisses and

holds. I see new moons, quarter moons,
half moons and full moons and the lunatic
surge pulls me in and pushes me out, my
moods change like the waves of the sea,

the deeps drowning me in depression,
the black dog’s bark, thoughts of death
in a bath, slit wrists, over doses, hanging
behind a bathroom door like mother had,

eyes popping, tongue protruding. I think
of past loves, dream of what might have
been, the boys who came and went, the
ones who stayed and spoiled, the girls who

stayed the night for sensual *** or schoolgirl
kisses, of visits to an asylum before mother’s
demise, the locked doors, the cruel cries and
lunatic laughter, the odd looking staff, the eyes,

the tongues, the finger gestures from closing
doors. I see the work of the gods in my daily
stares, the passing people on their way to death
or work or love or indecent *** with another’s

love, or a child innocent as a flower’s bud
plucked and pulled and brain washed by an
adult hand and tongue. I am one who sees
what’s come to an end and what’s sadly begun.

She sits beside Finbar, he
knows she’s there, sitting
there staring into air. That
silly hat perched on the top

of her head of hair, white,
seen better days, he thinks,
not says. He puffs his pipe,
bitter tongue taste, smoke

hitting lungs, head light, he
exhales the smoke. Had he
been younger, fitter maybe,
he might have given her a try,

been romantic, said the things
one says to the fair ***. But
he’s past that now, going to
seed as his old father would

have said. He can smell her
cheap perfume, wonders how
she moves, what her talents
are, what makes her brain tick.

Her silence is unnatural for a
female, never short of a word,
seldom rest the tongue, but she
just sits and stares, her silence

like a cloak. Her glass is there
untouched, the wine near the
rim, no lipstick marks, no spittle.
Had he been younger, in his

youth, he’d have made a play
for her, given it a try, seen how
she spread herself on the bed,
but not now, he’d lost the know

how. He inhales, bitter tongue
touch, smoke in the throat. She
sips from the wine, her pink lips
touching the glasses’ rim, her

fingers holding the glass. He
wonders what lies beneath that
dull coloured dress, what her
underwear, the colour, the shape

and size, how soft she was to feel
and touch, how she’d return his
want of feeling, his fires that burn.
Hush hush man, his inner voice

says, ******* on the pipe, exhaling
the smoke in the air and she just
sitting sipping, staring into air.

Didn’t tell you
my boyfriend’s
in prison did I?
Julie said

As you walked
through Leicester Square
having met her
off the bus

from the hospital
where she had to stay
for her drug habit
(her parents

being doctors
had her locked away
as best they could)
no you didn’t

you replied
taking note
of her tightly tied
ponytail

her eyes unfocused
the summery dress
long and colourful
got caught with drugs on him

in a raid
she said
o I see
you said

do you get to see him?
you asked
hoping not
wishing the ******

to be locked up good
no
she said
he’s too far away

for me to get to
in the period
I have free
from the hospital

and besides
he’s not really
my boyfriend
more an acquaintance

she sat in a seat
near a cinema
and stared
at passersby

you sat beside her
remembering the times
your old man
had brought you here

as a kid to see the nightlife
or go to the cinema
for some film
he had to see

or some famous actor
or actress he said
he thought
might be there

I’ve brought you
some cigarettes
you said
o you are a dear

she said
and kissed your cheek
and took the packet
and opened it up

there and then
and took one out
and lit it
with a plastic light

from her pocket
did you want one?
she asked
no you have them

you said
and so she sat
and smoked
and in between puffs

and exhalations
she spoke of her parents
and the hospital
and the staff there

and how she still remembered
that time she took you
in that small room
off the hospital ward

and did things
as she put it
and laughed
and the smoke

went up
and the people
went by
and you sat

watching her
taking in her hands
and fingers
the cigarette

between them
the eyes still dull
and bluish
or greenish

depending how
the sunlight caught them
and your cheek
still wet where her lips

had been
and the blue of sky
and the nearby park
with flowers

and grass flushed
with green.

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 ******.

Put your hand here
Yiska said

she took my hand
and placed it
on her stomach

it was soft
even through
the white school blouse
it was warm

I gazed at her
lying there
on the sports field grass
beside me
in lunchtime recess

the sound of other kids
on the field
ball games
tag games
others near by
talking
some laughing

what's it feel like?
she asked

a jelly
I replied

press a bit
she said

I pressed a little
my hand sinking inward
what's it feel like for you?
I asked

sensual
warming
she said
up higher  

she lifted my hand higher
just beneath
her tight small *******
and held it there

I feel your heart
I said

what else?
she smiled

a couple of small mounds
I said
what's it like for you?

like my heart
is going to break out
and sing
she said

I gazed over
her shoulder
a prefect was walking
our way
his beady eyes focusing
on us

best move apart
I said
the Gestapo are about

she moved away from me
just as the prefect
arrived at our feet

what are you two doing?
he said

talking about
the birds and bees
I said

looks like more
than that
he said
staring at Yiska

more than what?
she asked

more than talking
looked like he was
doing things
the prefect said

doing things?
Yiska said
what do you mean
doing things?

she sat up
and pulled down
her skirt
over her knees

the prefect looked at me
were you?

what?

doing things?

we were talking

and the rest
he said
I saw you
put your hand
on her

did I?
I asked Yiska

not that I remember
she said

the prefect  stared
at us both
then back towards
the school

well don't
he said
I’ll be watching

and he walked off
hands behind his back
his broad shoulders swaying

she smiled
eyes everywhere
she said

we lay back down
and gazed at the sky

I like puffy clouds
she said
they make funny shapes
sometimes

she pointed
with her thin finger
at the blue sky and clouds

I gazed at her finger
the pinky nail

that one
looks like an old man
in a bath
she said

I looked at the sky
that one's
like two dogs
*******
I said

the sports field echoed
with the sound
of her loud laugh.

Even the roughest
Shell of an oyster
Can sometimes contain
A beautiful pearl,

Annona had said
To Amy the night
Before as she lay
In her mistress’s

Arms, and you are my
Pearl, she remembers
Her adding as she
Turned towards her and

Kissed her. Now she waits
As her mistress starts
To slowly dry and
Dress herself after

Attending the baths,
The words still in her
Mind, the kisses still
Imprinted on her

Flesh. Attend me as
Any slave girl would,
Annona had said
That morning on the

Way to the baths, no
One must suspect there
Is any difference
In the nature of

Our relationship.
Amy knows about
This. Discretion is
Part of her makeup,

Part of her training.
Even this new love
Has its dark dangers.
Marcus returns soon,

Annona says, and
Then we must both be
Extra cautious, must
Tread carefully. She

Gazes at Amy
Who stands and watches
Her. The beautiful
Pearl, she now muses,

Drying her foot, such
A delightful find,
A fine purchase in
The slave marketplace.

Amy nods and smiles
And bends down taking
The small towel from her
Mistress’s hands and

Dries the foot. If it
Weren’t for those others
Nearby at the baths,
She would lean down and

Touch the head, feel the
Hair, kiss the lips, sense
The flesh on flesh, stare
Into the eyes, see

Brave new worlds there. If
Only she was more
Braver than she was;
If only she dare.

I sat opposite her
on the train
the carriage rocking
side to side
as trains do

the art gallery visit
still in mind
Matisse Cut-Outs
and else beside
to please the eye

I gazed at her slouched there
against the carriage side
sleeping
mouth open
fish out of water mode
clutching her pink handbag
a necklace of sorts
about her neck

her short shirt
raised up her thighs
her legs askew

Asian I thought
black hair straight
cheek level

the guy beside her
unconcerned
looked away

wonder what she's dreaming of
if she dreams at all?
I thought
whom she loved
and if she did
and where she lived
and where she came
from and when
and did she prefer
girls or men?

I drank her in
each aspect
of her being
from black haired top
to slip on shoes
and all between
that could be seen  

the carriage rocked
it's gentle rock
her head moved
in a no not now fashion
her mouth still open
taking in air
of crowded space
that snub nose
upon her face

the guy beside her
glanced at her
and gazed at me
then out the window
went his gaze

I wondered whom
she held in dreams
or waking life
was she some one's lover
some guy's wife?

not at all romantic
in that pose
child-like in innocence
a sleeping babe I suppose
I mused

I studied how her legs
slow swayed
to the train's motion
such stocky thighs
not fat or flabby
but kind of welcoming
to the eye

still she slept
mouth closing briefly
then open again
to capture air

some dream taking place
behind the eyes
and in her mind

I sat opposite her
on the train
the art gallery visit
some distant place
this was my new art
this dame's vacant
sleeping face.

Sleep on Yehudit,
yet before you go,
before you close
your bright blue eyes

to us all, tell me this:
do you remember
that first kiss?
That silver coin moon,

that boot black sky
of late evening?
Sleep,
my first lover,

but before you go,
before you rest
the deep rest,
tell me,

which day did you
love the best?
I recalled
and loved them all.

I remember...
do you love me?
You would ask.
Did not expect

your dying of big C...
Sleep the big sleep,
my Yehudit,  
rest your blue eyes,

give a final smile,
but before you do,
tell me softly,
did you really love me?

She’s gone to sleep
Again, as she
Often does, but
This time on a
Train. Maybe she

Dreams of distant
Isles, bright sunshine
Beaches, clothed in
A bright green, ***
Gripping, skimpy

Bikini and
Surrounded by
To die for men,
Or maybe she
Dreams of her first

Date, the bought for
Her flowers, the
Big box of chocs,
The quick given
Kisses and the

Mismanaged ****
Or perhaps she
Dreams of the lost
Baby and the
Last long hold, or

Maybe she dreams
Of her husband
Beating her up
As he often
Did and leaving

Her out in the
Midnight’s cold, or
Perhaps she dreams
All these dreams in
Disorderly

Sequence like some
Nightmare show, all
Mixed up, drawn out
And slow. She’s gone
To sleep in a

Train, full of dark
Sorrow as she
Often is, so
Maybe she’ll not
Wake up again.

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

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

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

when the teacher
was out of the room
leaning over

his shoulders
whispering things
into his small ears

and he'd say something
and they wet themselves
laughing

putting fingers
to mouths or bellies
and saying

oh my God
or
I've never heard

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

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

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

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

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

or cards flicking
or conker smashing
he just hung around

the fence
peering out
at the girls

on the playing field
playing hockey
or some other

ball games
in their short
green skirts

that showed
their green underwear
when they jumped

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

what about us guys
what about joining in
with our games

or talk with us
but he never did
and Reynard said

he must have something
the girls like
small Broderick

possibly his big dark eyes
you said
or his humour

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

The mourners come,
Each one set out
Along the way
From chapel door

To where the small
White coffin lies
And preacher stands.
One small red rose

Upon the lid,
To tell of love
And show the grief
Of baby dead

Which lies beneath
The coffin’s wood
Which was a tree
And proudly stood

But now it holds
Like vessel womb
A baby child
Within its tomb.

The mourners come,
Each one set out
Along the way
From chapel door

To where the small
White coffin lies
And preacher stands.
One small red rose

Upon the lid,
To tell of love
And show the grief
Of baby dead

Which lies beneath
The coffin’s wood
Which was a tree
And proudly stood

But now it holds
Like vessel womb
A baby child
Within its tomb.

I sat on the front doorstep
with Lydia
of her parents' flat
on the ground floor
looking onto the Square

she had her thin chin
in the palms
of her small hands

her mother's words
still hanging in the air
from moments before

Paddington Railway Station?
you want to go all that way
to see a ****** train station?

yes
Lydia said
we want to see the trains
that go to Scotland

her mother stared at us
as if we started speaking
in a foreign tongue

it isn't Paddington
it's King Cross train station
she said

is it?
I said

yes it is
she said
I should know
her dad goes there
now and then
but not often enough

can we go there?
Lydia asked

what for?
her mother said
all that way
just to see trains to Scotland?

yes
we said jointly

and how are you going
to get there
walk?
she said

go by bus or train
I said

have you the money?
because I sure haven't
she said

or underground train
I said
be quicker

have you the money then?
her mother asked

I stared at her hair
pinned in curlers
red lips
arms folded
cigarette in between
her fingers

I can get some
from my old man
he'll give me some
I said

if you can get the money
Lydia's mother said
you can go
but don't be late home
or I’ll slap your backside
my girl

and she went in
and slammed the door

I looked at Lydia beside me
well are we going?

will your dad give you
the money?

I've got some
in the blue
metal money box
he made me
I said

enough to go
to Kings Cross station?

should have

wish we had enough
to go to Scotland
she said

maybe one day
I said smiling

she looked at me
let's go then
she said

so we got off
the front doorstep
and made out way
across the Square
leaving her mother's
words behind
smelling adventure
in the air.

Helen walked down
the steps of St Jude’s school
her mum was waiting for her
with the big pram

you were by the school gates
are you coming back with us?
Helen said
ok

you said
and so you
and Helen
and her mum

walked along
St George’s Road
her mother talking
about the shopping

she’d done
and what she’d bought
Helen walking alongside
you thinking of Cogan

and him saying
he was going to
smash your face
but he didn’t of course

he was all mouth
but even if you had to
fight him you had to
be careful of his glasses

never hit someone
with glasses your mother
used to say
but if you had to

you would of course
can you come to tea?
Helen asked
you looked at her mum

pushing the pram
if it’s all right
with your mum
you said

it’s fine
her mother said
as long as you
don’t expect caviar

and she laughed
and you wondered
what caviar was
but smiled anyway

and once you got
to Helen’s house
you said
will my mum know

where I am?
yes I told her
you’d come with us
for tea this morning

Helen’s mum said
that’s good isn’t it
Helen said
and she took you

into the sitting room
and you sat
on the big brown settee
and she sat beside you

and told you
about the boy
in her class
who said she looked

like a toad with glasses
I don’t do I?
she said
not at all

you said
you’re pretty
you added
beginning to blush

do I?
she said
yes
you said

and she kissed
your cheek
and you patted her
on the back

and she went off
to the kitchen
where her mum
was getting tea

and you heard her say
Benedict said I was pretty
that’s nice
her mother said

now ask Benedict
if he wants bread and jam
or bread and dripping
and you saw Helen’s

old doll Battered Betty
on an armchair
by the fireplace
staring at you

with that smile
on its face.

Searching in the gutters
of Meadow Row
and up along by the back
of the coal wharf

Benedict picked out
and up
dog ends
or cigarette butts

as his old man
called them
and picking them up
he tore open the paper

and tipped the tobacco
into a white paper
sweet bag
how can you do that?

Ingrid said
all those people’s
spit and dribble
on them

she pulled a face
he smiled
she looked serious
germs on them

she said
she wiped her hands
on her stained
green dress

he bent down
and picked out
another cigarette ****
and opened it up

between fingers
and thumbs
and emptied it
into the bag

you’re too young
to smoke
she said
if my dad saw me smoking

he’d smack me silly
she said
he does anyway
he said

she bit her lip
and looked away
sorry
he said

didn’t mean
to be like that
he touched her hand
she stared at him

through wire
framed glasses
she liked it when
his hand touched hers

no one else
touched her tenderly
she looked
at his cowboy hat

placed to the back
of his head
the six shooter gun
stuffed in the belt

of his jeans
the borrowed blue waistcoat
(his grandfather’s given
a month or so back)

she put her other hand
on top of his
he took his hand out slowly
in case other boys

from school may see
and walked to the shelter
of a wall
of a bombed out house

and they both sat down
he took out a packet
of cigarette papers
( liberated from

his old man)
and pulled out
a paper and shoved
the packet of papers

back in the pocket
of his jeans
and taking a pinch
of tobacco from the bag

he fingered it
in a straight line
into the cigarette paper
then rolled it

as he’d seen
his old man do
then licked the end
to form a thin cigarette

Ingrid watched in silence
as his fingers moved
and his tongue licked
you’re not going to

smoke it are you?
she asked
he put the cigarette
between his lips

sure am
he said John Wayne like
but you’re only 9
she said

you’re only 9
and you’re watching
he replied
he took out a box

of Swan Vesta
(borrowed from
the cupboard at home)
and lit the cigarette

and puffed slowly
she waved a hand
as smoke came near
her face

my dad will smell that
on me
she said
and think it was me

smoking and tell me off
she said
beat you black and blue
Benedict thought

not said
he coughed and spluttered  
and took out
the cigarette

and blew smoke
from his mouth
and spat out phlegm
brownish yellow

if your old man hits you again
I’ll shoot him
full of cap smoke
he said

she laughed
and hit his arm
he flicked the cigarette
onto the bombsite

with a finger
and watched
as the smoke
he’d blown out

like a pale ghost
seemed to linger.

There was snow
and ECTs
and the locked doors
of the locked ward

and Yiska was sitting
by the window
looking at the sunrise
after an almost

sleepless night
looks deep
I said
looking out

at the snow
on the trees and fields
she gazed at me
can't you sleep either?

bits and pieces of sleep
snatches of dreams
or nightmares
I said

I heard you
with that night nurse
during the night
Yiska said

asking her about
going home
you were awake too?
yes I got up for a while

and stared at the snow
coming down
against the moon's light
it looked so peaceful

so surreal
being stuck in here
seems surreal
I said

we'll get out one day
she said
walk out
into the free air

and no quacks or nurses
snooping over you
and no more ECTs
no more **** headaches

and all because
that ******* left me
at the altar
on my wedding day

I looked at her
sitting there
her hair unbrushed
her eyes red

her dressing gown
loose and pulled over
her white legs
gives you time to think

of things you don't want
to think about
and the ECTs
don't help

despite
what they claim
I said
when I woke up that time

after one
of my ECT sessions
my head was heavy with pain
and I saw you

lying on the bed
next to mine
and thought momentarily
we were dead

and I’d woken
in some kind of Limbo
with that white light
coming through cracks

in the shutters
then you woke
and we stared at each other
and never spoke.

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

drifting slow‭
and filling‭
the branches‭
of the trees,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cold,‭ ‬freezing‭
waiting to go.

So extraordinary
that each time you saw her

it was like the first time
as if you had been new born

to the vision of her
even that last time

when she went across your view
with her husband

to the grocery store
and looking over at you

she smiled that smile of hers
and her eyes had that same sparkle

and even though
you had not seen her

in a few years
and didn’t know

her husband from Adam
you still felt seeing her

as if you had seen
a Degas painting

for the first time
or heard Beethoven

touching your ears
at a young age

or smelling your first Chanel
on some dame

but as she went by
into the store

and disappeared from view
you wanted to turn back the clock

to that evening
walking home from choir

and she turned
and kissed you

beneath the moon
and held you close

and happily sighed
but time was fixed

in its rut
for having seen her

that last time
she died.