And how could it be otherwise,
She knew the thumping year,
The old despise,

With words to match;
The peel and pinch,
The sink and feel

And know her reach
Of deep despair
And know each touch

Each poke and pull
All beneath his cloak
Of double-dealings

And double-talk;
To feel as ghosts walk

She sleeps as only girls sleep
dreaming of babies and diamonds
or how that rich guy got away.
She slumbers with lips pressed tight.

Her eyes flicker like flames of
a new touched fire. Her hands lay
like guardians over her womb,
beneath her dress. She dreams
of his lips. Pressed close, skin on skin.

Once upon a dream she made love
to her sister’s husband. Once upon
a nightmare her husband kissed her
upon her ******.  In deep sleep she
smells of ashes from Auschwitz, her
mother’s family perished amongst flames.

She rubs her nose in sleeps’ hold,
scratches her head with unpainted
fingernails. Once upon a sleep she
counted aborted babes, the white
vacant coffins. She turns in her sleep,
her body moves in her favourite armchair,
too tired for bed. She has had nailed
her one Picasso print above her head.

Her husband is in Vienna, a ****** on
his arm, another between sheets,
never from love, always the lust.

She will have him back upon his return;
always his pupil, but never to learn.

That is as good as it gets:
Mrs Hushbenway gazing
at herself in the mirror.
Her husband lies in bed

staring at her back; her
backside squatted on the
small stool of the dressing
table, her back ramrod straight,

her hair in a mess. She grimaces,
shows her teeth, licks her lips.
He takes in her fading pink
nightie, the dark pink *******

showing through, the way she
sits there gazing at her face,
the way she grimaces. Enough
to sink ships, he thinks, not saying.

He imagines she’s some other,
some younger specimen, sitting
there, slim figure, maybe naked,
brushing her hair. She is talking

now, he assumes it is small talk,
some neighbour’s husband or
kid or some new baby on the way,
or some dress she’d seen, but not

in her size. He thinks of the old days,
the days of rough and tumble, times
of getting in late, falling into bed
and having it off before deep sleep.

She’s asking him a question, no
idea what, he tries to bluff, to pretend
he had not heard too well. She
turns and stares, her big eyes, cow

like, brown and liquidy as diarrhoea,
search him, brings on the pretend
fear, the good husband pose. Ah yes,
now he’s heard, knows the answer,

what she’d want him to say and he
does and she turns satisfied and brushes
her locks, having lost her looks. He
knows her well, knows her funny ways,

her little lived in world, her way of
seeing things, of saying things, the
words she prefers, leaving out words
not hers, like **** and **** and ****

and ****, words he likes to sprout in
anger if banging toe or elbow. Now
she undresses, takes off the clothing
piece by piece, he hums the striptease

tune, but she's not amused, and gives
him her stare. Oh you, he thinks, who
could sink a thousand ships, whose
face could turn the tides of sea, shut
thy cackle, come kiss, remember me.

The charge nurse closes
the door behind Yiska.
Can I go home? Not yet.
When? When you are

well enough. I am well
enough. We think not.
Who are we? The nurses
and the doctors and I,

think you are not well
enough. But I feel well
enough. You are on the
inside looking out, we

are on the outside of
you looking in. So? We
see things from a much
different angle. But I feel

well. Feelings can betray.
But I feel well. You think
you are well. I am. We think
not. But what do you know?

We are professionals. But
I know what I feel inside.
The charge nurse taps his
pen on the desk, Yiska coldly

stares at him. You tried to
cut your wrists. Tried yes,
but I stopped. Not soon
enough. I am here aren’t I?

The fact you decided to
cut your wrists says you
are unwell. It was how I
felt then. Feelings again.

It was a dark time. Wait
until you are better when
the dark days have gone.
You mean ECT? It helps.

Not me. Some it does.
Not me though. We saw
Improvement, we think.
You think? We professionals.

I get headaches. Side effect.
I feel sick afterwards. More
side effect. Yiska screws
her hands in her lap. The

charge nurse stares at her.
You mix well with Baruch.
He’s kind. He’s a patient.
He is unwell like you. I like

him. He has his problems.
Don’t we all? He will not
help you. You don’t help
me. He will not. I like him.

So we are informed. You
spy? We watch. Spy. We
need to watch all of our
patients. I want to go.

When you are well. Now
I want to leave here.
The hospital? Yes. No.
The room then. Here.

Yes. Ok. Yiska gets up
from the chair. The
charge nurse sits there
watching her. She draws

her nightgown tightly
about her as she leaves
the room. We are still
watching you and Baruch.

Yiska says nothing. The
door closes. She sighs.
The charge nurse folds
his fingers over his large

paunch and stares at the
door and folds away his
captured image of her
naked as he has before.

Ingrid would mostly get out of bed in the mornings last of all after her sister had done and her father had gone off to work and she had heard the front door go and knew it was safe to go wash and dress and brush her hair and sit down to breakfast her mother had prepared(if she was up) or she'd get her own cereal and mug of tea(stewed after her father had made it) and listened to the radio some ladeeda voice talking about something she didn't understand or music by so and so's orchestra watching her sister mouth in her cereal or her brother chewing the doorstep slice of bread he'd cut she sat in the wonky chair sitting still in case the leg broke and her dad'd leather her for being reckless when he got home she mouthed her cereal slowly knowing her mother'd say you got to chew it properly Ingrid you don't half gobble your food down like a blooming turkey you are and her brother sat opposite looking at her pulling a face now and then or poking out his tongue or her sister sitting back lounging as her mother called it and if her mother was up and dressed she'd be brushing the carpet in the other room or putting the copper on for the wash or hanging out washing from the night before on the line her dad put up out on the balcony Ingrid scratched her nose looking at the small television set in the corner the small black and white number her uncle said fell off the back of a lorry and no questions asked no lies told he'd say laughing she gazed at the mantelpiece with the old clock and a few small statues of birds and animals she tried to sit comfortable as she could tried to avoid sitting on her right buttock too much where her dad'd hit her the night before for a tear in her school skirt think we're made of money do ya do ya? she moved to her left ate the last mouthful and sipped her tea stewed or not at least it was still sweet and hot and it made her inside warm it was near time to go to school she thought looking at the clock only half listening to her brother talking about some bird he had been out with the night before oh yes she was up for it he said but up for what Ingrid didn't know or care her sister sat mouth open gazing at him the spoon half way to her mouth as if frozen in time and I fancy her a bit and said I'd take her to see that new picture that's out and we can sit in the back row and well he laughed you know what it's like in the back row but Ingrid didn't and looked away and wondered if she dared have a biscuit from her father's tin she liked the chocolate ones he bought for himself but if he found out there'd be hell to pay and he'd say it was nothing but theft and give her a good hiding no best not to risk it she thought getting down from the table and getting her coat and satchel ready to leave don't forget to brush your teeth her mother bellowed from the other room you know what the dentist said last time about your teeth as how you don't brush them enough OK I am Ingrid bellowed back going into the kitchen and taking her pink brush from the cup on the red tiled shelf and dipped it in the tin of tooth paste and brushed as hard as she could until her gums bled staring at herself in the small mirror her dad shaved in staring at her teeth the gums bleeding the toothpaste white and red her brush held by her mouth and washed her brush under the cold water tap the getting a handful of water she washed out her mouth until the bleeding stopped then wiped her mouth on the towel behind the door get a move on her mother bawled from the living room or you'll be late OK just going Ingrid bellowed back over the clutter of sounds from the radio and her mother banging around and she opened the front door and closed it behind her nosily so that her mother would know she'd gone and not bellow anymore and so off she walked along the balcony looking over at the Square below wondering if Benedict had left yet hoping he hadn't wishing to see him she went down the concrete stairs until she reached the entrance and out into the Square where she walked by the other flats on the ground floor looking ahead to see if Benedict was about but she couldn't see him and so walked on down the ***** towards the road then along by the flats wondering if he r mother was watching her walk along from the flat window above and behind her that's how her mother knew about Benedict and her how they walked together to school and sometimes they stood on the balcony in the evenings looking at the sky darkening or the down at the Square below but Benedict wasn't with her this morning maybe he'd gone earlier or maybe he was late leaving but she couldn't wait in case and besides her father didn't like Benedict said he was a bit up himself a bit soft what with his reading books and collecting stamps and so on but that was what she liked about him he was different and he was kind to her and didn't tease her like most of the boys did didn't call her four eyes or say she stank or that she had fleas(which she didn't except that one time she got them from Denise) or try to lift up her school skirt to see the colour of her underwear like some of the boys did or tried she went into subway the lights glowing the echoes of voices in her ears the hum of traffic above the sense of being walled in the smell of ***** where tramps had slept and **** the walls when she came out the other end she saw Benedict waiting for her by Burton's clothes shop his hands in his pockets a big smile on his face and she felt all warm inside all safe and happy as if blessed by the good God's grace.

Your mother had given you
a few coins to buy sweets

and on the way you met Fay
and you said

do you want to come
and buy some sweets?

and she said
I haven’t any money

and you said
you can share mine

if you tell me what you like
but she said

my father wouldn’t like it
if I had sweets he says

they rot your teeth
but she walked to the shop with you

thinking silently to herself
and outside the shop

you said
are you sure?

she nodded and stood outside
while you went in

and bought sweets
when you came out

she was waiting there
her eyes gazing at you

her tongue running over
her lips

you showed her
what you’d bought

and her eyes widened
here take one

you said
your dad won’t know

if you don’t tell him
she hesitated

her fingers lingering
over the bag of sweets

but what if he sees me
or smells them

on my breath?
she said fear entering her eyes

her hands falling at her sides
you put out a hand

and touched hers
it’s only a sweet

it’s not as if
you’re having a drag of a smoke

or sipping beer
she nodded and smiled a little

best not
she said

if he finds out
he’ll get angry with me

for eating sweets and lying
and you remembered

the bruises you’d seen
on her arms and thighs

that time
and you sighed thinking

as if eating sweets
was a big deal or a crime.

That monk
in the refectory
of the abbey,

bespectacled
with dark curly hair
like a cissy girl,

gave me the stare
as if I shouldn't be there,
but maybe

he wasn't
looking at me at all,
perhaps at the opposite wall

or a monk behind me
who stared back at him
with equal stare

wishing maybe
he wasn't there.
I cleaned the bogs

on the second floor,
swept the cloister
as if some

holy street
or one of them
in Jerusalem

where He once walked
or strolled with others
before the Roman's

did Him in.
The old peasant monk
sharpened his scythe

on the narrow stone,
before continuing
to cut the tall grass,

lonesome looking,
humble, God blessed,
as if not alone.

Enid's old man
passes me
in the Square

he gives me
the tough guy stare
trying to scare

I give a smirk
(the ****)
look at his dark eyes
his stubble
then he's gone by
off to work
down the *****
out of sight

I look up
at the flats
a bag of bread rolls
in my hands
(my mother's shopping)

I wonder how
Enid was
whether her old
man had had
a go at her
had left
a fleshy medal
on her skin
blue green
sinking in

I walk up
the concrete stairs
passing by
the landings
until I saw Enid
on the top step
sitting there

what you doing here?
I ask

my dad threw me
out here
said I was not
to go back in
until my mother
called me in

why's that?

he said I'd been naughty
and had to wait
in the cold air
as punishment

I sat beside her
on the cold stair
when will your mother
call you in?

he said not
for twenty minutes
she says shivering

you can't sit
out here that long

I must

no way
come to our flat
and wait
then go out

I can't
what if mother calls
and I'm not there

will she tell him?

yes she's frightened of him
of course she will
Enid says

how long
to wait now?
I saw your old man
just go

twenty minutes
from now I guess

then come to our flat
for fifteen minutes
then we'll wait
on the stairs?

she closes her eyes
hugs herself
I can't
in case he finds out
she says

wait here
I say
and go in my flat
and give my mother
the bread rolls
and tell her

she butters two rolls
and puts in cheese
and I take them
out to Enid
on the stair
and we sit together
eating
as if we
didn't care.

You think more
of Mr Eddington
her father said
than almost

anything else
and she knew she did  
but her father drew the line
at her having him in her bed

and her mother
wasn’t so keen either
I don’t want cat’s hairs
on the pillowcases

or on those sheets
or blankets
and so Mr Eddington
had to stay out

of her bed
and be content
to sit by the window
or on the window ledge

or on the small carpet
by the chest of drawers
and don’t feed
the **** cat

at the table
her father said
it isn’t polite
to have cat’s spittle

on your hands
while eating
and so she sat
on the chair

with one foot
on the stool
in that
I don’t give

a **** pose
and Mr Eddington
sat himself
comfortably

by the stool
and she sang him
one of those
Rock and Roll songs

she liked or recited
an Ezra Pound poem
which her father disliked
or she put her hands

behind her head
and whistled part
of an Elvis Presley song
which her mother said

wasn’t ladylike at all
and to sit like that
her father said
with your leg up

with underclothes showing
is just not on at all
now sit like a lady
would sit

he said
and there were times
Jezebel thought
she wished them

both dead
so long as Mr Eddington
was there
she just didn’t care.

The grief will lessen,
the pain become
a mild ache, some said,
after the death
and the son dead.

Somewhat
like telling
someone
who is drowning
the substance
of water.

I cannot
measure out
the length of time
of my grief,
or how deep
the pain goes
by plunging a knife
into the wound
as if seeing
like some cake
or meat
if it is cooked.

I see each
morning dawn
shadowy,
as if ghosts
walk through
or clouds mask
what little light
I see or catch
or gone out
like puffed
out match

Even in silence
I sense his
being there
in the cool
morning air;
feel the loss
like sand
through fingers,
although his image
ghostlike lingers.

And at close of day,
when moon's
kingdom comes,
stars tell lies
by being there
when maybe
long ago they
burnt out
or were lost.

And you,
my son,
that last talk
we had,
mundane,
yet real,
tangible,
real then
as now the pain.

It was just one of those moments
In combat, the soldier guessed,
One of those gritty times of war,

When who was who
Didn’t matter no more.
The girl he held

Was dying fast,
Her feeble breath
Ebbing away

Across his shoulder
Like a frail tide of being;
Someone’s bundle of joy;

A bloodied jumble
Of flesh and bone;
Which at home,

No doubt,
Would cause a stir,
If known, or seen;

But this was war,
The cruelty of war;
Taking no sides

Amongst such slaughter;
Someone’s child,
Someone’s daughter.

Ed Sutcliffe said
he saw his cousin
walk from bathroom
to bedroom (not his)

starkers
nigh on
had to push
my eyes back in

the sockets
he added
you muck pig
O’Brien said

you did it
on purpose
so you could
have a gawk

I never did
it was just
one of those things
never in a month

of Sundays
would I have gawked
Sutcliffe said
is she worth

the gawking?
you asked
o to be sure she is
O’Brien said

would Eddie here
be gawking
at a titless wonder?
no to be sure

she’s got to be worth
the eye strain
but not my cousin
Sutcliffe said

I’d not be waiting
outside the bathroom
to gawk at her
coming out

so say you Succy
you lecherous bronco
I think I saw her once
you said

hasn’t she got
white blonde hair
like yourself
and more curves

than the figure eight?
no
Sutcliffe said
that’s not her

that’s my mother
you’ve seen
you don’t gawk
your mother

do you Eddie?  
O’Brien said
what you take me for
of course not

Sutcliffe said
he’s just joking
with you
you said

nothing meant
Sutcliffe walked ahead
in a strop
four letter words

coming over
his thin shoulder
poor old Eddie
you sure take

the *****
out of him
you said
ah it’s nothing

O’Brien said
he’ll get over it
as the bishop
got over the actress

and sure enough
as soon as you all
reached the school gates
Sutcliffe was his old self

wanting a quick drag
on O’Brien’s smoke
thinking all
the old patter
as one huge joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amy draws a curtain
On her mistress’s midday
Slumbers. She wishes she

Could enter her mistress’s
Dreams, could be there,
Closer, sharing the same air,

The same thoughts, the same
View and smell and sounds.
Her master, Marcus has gone

Off on a visit to some man of
Importance in Rome. Good
At least he’s out of the way.

At least I can be here when
She wakes and not have him
Sniffing around like a dog for

A ***** on heat. She draws
Back the curtain a few inches
And looks at her mistress.

The eyes closed, the lips
Sealed in a kind of downward
Slant, the nose breathing the

Midday air without hurry, with
One arm above her head and the
Other by her side. She wishes

She could lie beside her now,
Sense her arms about her, her
Lips on hers, her words soft as

Falling petals entering her ears.
He had her last night; he had her
Beside him in the bed; had her

In the usual way of men. She
Wonders if he could sense her
Presence in his bed beside his

Wife, could feel the indentation
Of her head upon the pillow
Where she had lain some nights

Before his return. Some parts of
Her wishes he could, if only out
Of jealousy of his return and his

Place in her mistress’s bed and
In her arms and him having the
Kisses and not her as she had

Before. She is tempted to sneak
Over and lay a soft kiss on her
Mistress’s brow or cheek. To feel

Again that soft skin, that feel of
Flesh, but she lets the curtain drop.
She will bide her time and wait until

The master goes again, but until that
Time and moment comes she must
Take what little comfort she can

Seeing her mistress and sensing
Her love and in the private moment
When they can, exchange the odd

Embrace or kiss or take some comfort
From just the view of the one she
Loves so deeply as other lovers do.

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

It’s the fifth hotel room
in as many days
the fifth morning waking
and standing there

by the window
watching her sleep
and he thinks
no one sleeps

like she does
no one seems to enjoy
sleep like she does
as if she were born to it

and he lets his eyes
rest on her
for a few moments
lets them move

over her lying there
wanting to climb
back in bed
and make love to her

but not while she’s sleeping
of course
although he did
years before

with some other woman
that plump one
who had drunk herself
into a slumber

and had said
before she had nodded off
we must make love
and so he had

but it had been no fun
it had no satisfaction
he recalls
taking in

the sleeping woman
before him how
she barely seems to breathe
as she sleeps

and he moves closer
and puts his ear
near to her
careful not to let

his breath wake her
his warm breath
stir her awake
she is moody if woken

before time
will sulk over breakfast
down stairs
in the hotel restaurant

with a face like thunder
sitting at the table
staring down
at her cereal bowl

picking at the food
sipping coffee
no best to let her sleep
he thinks as he moves away

takes in her red night dress
the one he’d bought
in Chicago
and the store girl

had looked at him
as he stood there
with it in his hands
and smiled

and the girl had
a kind of **** smile
one of those smiles
that seemed to say

wish we were an item
wish that red nightie
was for me
but it wasn’t

and he left the store
with it wrapped up
in a neat package
and gave it to her

just before
they came away
and her eyes opened up
when she saw it

and she’s worn it
the last five nights
and it has soaked her up
into its cloth now

her perfume
her perspiration
her skin touching it
and it enfolding her

like a mother
and o look at her
sleeping there
he says to himself

look how she sleeps
her red hair
matching her nightdress
o he wants to hold her

and kiss her
and feel her close
o how he wants
to enter her

and explode within her
she lets out
a soft sigh
he stands still

his hand in his pockets
she breathes out
one long sigh
if only she would wake

he muses
his tongue
at the corner
of his mouth

if only she would turn now
and say
come on
come and make love to me

but she doesn’t
she moves her leg
her toes move
her buttocks twitch

her fingers scratch an itch
wake up Sweetheart
he mumbles
wake up

his disappointed self says
wake up you *****.

Snow drifted by. Snow drifted by the large window of the locked ward of the hospital. Yiska watched from the black sofa in the main lounge. White and pure. Cold and white. White as her wedding dress she wore to the church, but he never showed, and she stood at the altar alone. She watched the snowflakes drift. His best man brought a message: he couldn't go through with it. She refused to removed the wedding dress. She wore to bed that night and next day and only after someone injected her to sedate her was it removed and she woke up in the locked ward of the hospital. She wrapped the dressing gown about her. The snow seemed to be getting heavier. The hour was unknown to Yiska, but the night nurse was in her small office, writing notes. Other patients still slept in the dormitory; men in theirs and women in theirs. She could hear their snores or moans. Her wrist was bandaged where she'd slit it a few days before with a knife liberated from the meals wagon which came twice a day with meals. The nurse who stitched her up said it was just as well it was vein and not an artery as it would have been worse. The wound was sore. She sensed it still each time she moved her hand. Benny walked from the men's dormitory across by the night nurse's office and into main lounge. He walked to the window and peered out. How long has it been snowing? He asked. It was already coming down when I came in here a little while ago, she replied, looking at him standing in his nightgown and slippers. Peaceful looking, he said. He turned and gazed at her on the sofa. How's your wrist? She looked at her bandaged wrist. Sore. He looked past her. No one else up yet then. No, thank God. He sat down next to her and pulled the nightgown tight about him, tucking in the ends as he had no belt. Cigarette? He asked. She nodded. He took a packet from his nightgown pocket and offered her one and took one himself and lit both with a plastic lighter. She inhaled deeply; he inhaled half heartedly. Where'd you get the lighter? Same place I got the ciggies: one of the day nurses left them behind by error I assume. Why the slit wrist? Mistake. He raised his eye brows. Only a vein, not artery, apparently. Bit like your hanging attempt, she said, eyeing him through the released smoke from her cigarette. Second attempt, he said, exhaling slowly through his nose. How's your *** life? He smiled at her words. Same as yours, I expect. She inhaled and looked at the drifting snow. I ought to have been on my honeymoon a few months ago, she said, not looking at him, but at the snow flakes drifting by. Had the ******* showed that is. Benny looked at her beside him. She smelt of apples. He caught a glimpse of thigh as she moved her leg and moved the dressing gown. Why'd he not show? Because he's a cowardly *******. Did you notice he wasn't keen? He seemed up for it. But wasn't? No I guess not, she said turning her head and staring at Benny. She sighed and inhaled the cigarette smoke. He smoked deeply and sat and gazed at the snow. She put a hand on his leg. You're the only one here to ask apart from the quacks. He turned and gazed at her. He placed a hand over her hand. Two lonely people drifting in an open boat, he said. On a rough sea, she added. They sat and held hands and looked at the snowflakes passing the window as they smoked. Once the cigarettes had been smoked, they stubbed out the butts in an ashtray. She kissed him on his cheek. He kissed her lips. They parted and sat gazing around the lounge of the locked ward. No where to be alone, she said. Unless, she added, looking at him, we go in the shower room. He looked at her. It can't be locked. No room here locks apart from the doors leading into the ward itself. Who cares, she said, no one will be up yet. He looked towards the passage. What about Florence Nightingale? She won't know or care. She seldom leaves her office, Yiska said. Do we dare? He asked. To eat a peach? Or walk tiptoe on the beach? She said.  She took his hand and led him along through the long corridor to the shower room silently as they could walk. He sensed her hand in his. Warm and soft. They reached the door of the shower room and entered in and closed the door after them. It wasn't very big, but it seemed sufficient room if they set down just right. Turn off the light, she said. He pulled the cord. Dimness surrounded them, light from the corridor let in a vague light to part the darkness. She kissed him and held him close. He embraced her to him tightly. She lay down on the floor of the available space and lifted her legs and pulled him down between her. She kissed him before he could say anything. The space was cramped. He felt hemmed in; he couldn't stretch out his legs, but knelt there, hands on her hips. Pressing on her lips. She sensed the sore wrist, an ache in her back, a cramp in a thigh. Can't do it, he said, too ****** cramped. She nodded and said, we might if we're quick. She wanted to kiss again, but her thigh stiffened and she said, I got to get up, cramp. He tried to lift himself in the small space. Treading by her hip and one foot hovering over her visible ******. He placed the foot on the small space of floor and stood up against the shower door. She pulled herself up by dragging herself up by his arm, her wrist sore as hell, blood seeping through the bandage. She rubbed her thigh vigorously with her other hand. Shall I do that for you? He asked, peeping out at the corridor. No, you'll turn me on more and there's no room, she said, rubbing the thigh, biting her lip. Blood seeped more through the bandage and he lifted her arm up. They kissed. They heard a voice coming down the corridor, the pitter-patter of shoes on the floor. They parted and held their breath. The night nurse walked by to the toilets next door and closed the door behind her.  They stood in the dimness kissing, she rubbing her thigh, he holding her ****** wrist right up high.

A butterfly fluttered by
as we lay
in the long grass
talking;
well she talked,
I listened
to her words,
took them
into my mind,
turned them around
as if they
were rare gems,
all air and breath,
peppermint tasting.

I looked
at the rise and fall
of her *******
beneath the blouse;
her hand shading
her eyes
from bright sunlight;
her hair tucked
behind her ears;
lips moving,
the pink gloss touching
lip to lip as she spoke.

The butterfly
disappeared from sight;
red and black
and white wings,
fluttering, riding
between her words,
carrying off,
maybe, a breath feel,
a wing touched,
colourful,
sight captured.

I could have ran
a finger along
her thigh,
barely touching,
skimming maybe,
but my fingers behaved,
held back;
the rise and fall
of her mounds,
the eyes shaded,
her words
became butterflies,
fluttered about me,
carrying softness,
tender as bubbles,
syllables upon syllables
reaching for the sky,
then like far away stars
they began to die.

Night and the stars shine
You are there my little babe
Who died in my womb.

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

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

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

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

Yiska slits
her thin wrist
-broken glass

in a bin
in the ward
what a find-

the blood comes
plentiful
beautiful

she reckons
sitting back
in the bath

of water
motherly
and warming

reddening
but a nurse
on duty

looking to
tell Yiska
the doctor

wanted her
finds her there
in the bath

drifting off
and blood soaked
EMERGECY

SUICIDE
the nurse yells
up the ward

-locked up ward
those who are
mentally

unstable
are caged here-
I am in

the main lounge
looking out
the window

snows falling
some robin
perches there

on a branch
Yiska said
earlier

she'd make it
out of here
one way or

the other
there's a rush
of nurses

and a quack
follows up
half way through

-I'm guessing-
his breakfast
there's egg yoke

at the side
of his mouth
poor Yiska

so depressed
no way out
she told me

but I guess
watching the
brave robin

sitting there
that there is
if you look

really hard
to get out
out somewhere.

Liz put the plate
on the table.

I watched.

First day, new job.

The patients grabbed
at the contents
of the plate
and a fight
almost broke out.

Take turns,
yer idjits,
she said.

A Downs gazed at her
with his large brown eyes,
his tongue sat
on his lower lip.

Maybe, a plate each
would be better,
I said.

Not so much
fun though,
she replied.

The contents that
had been on the plate
was now being eaten
or lay scattered
on the floor
beneath the table.

A few patients
looked on bewildered,
staring at me
or Liz as she moved
about the table,
her hands stuffed
in the pockets
of her white coat.

She walked
past the table
and walked
to the window
and gazed out.

Is there nothing else?
I asked.

Later,
she said,
give it to
them later.

One or two patients
got down
from the table
and walked
about the room,
some playing
with their fingers,
some nodding
their heads,
some just walked
past each other
and spoke gibberish.

Think you'll
like the job?
Liz asked.

I shrugged
my shoulders.

Don't know.

The Downs got down
from the table
with his handful of food
and passed Liz
contentedly,
eyeing her
sideways on,
his nose running,
his tongue poking
from the side
of his mouth.

Hours past.

The smell of *****
soaked into my
white coat,
the smell of it
in the air,
hanging there afloat.

“They have locked the ward,” said Tristana, “I am prisoner to the nurse’s whim. I see the large key hanging from her belt, it rattles against the other keys as she walks. I feel ghosts touch my arm as I pass; their voices echo in my ears, their fingers feel my flesh. The nurse called Bryony bellows at us all; her voice hammers in our ears. The windows show the fields beyond, the trees wave in the wind, the birds fly so high. Isolde holds my hand, she follows me wherever I go; her eyes are alight with her father’s ghost; his spanking hand raised in her memory’s eye. I let her come to my bed at night, let her cuddle close when the lights are out, let her kiss when the others sleep. The mad here are ****** by their minds; the sunlight makes them ***** up their eyes; their voices are pitched to the highest degree. The nurses come with their strutting pace; their hands haul us to our place in the dining hall; the food rammed down throats like pigs at troughs; the sounds of the mad echo the walls. Isolde and I walk in the grounds; the elm grove our daily trot; the birds our only companions. She speaks of her father’s hitting hand and his ******* times with her flesh at nights; she stares at the sky like a lost sheep. We embrace beyond the window’s sight; we kiss where none can see; the sunlight blesses us, the wind holds us with kind parent’s touch; we whisper words to the passing birds. The high walls surround us; the far off bell reminds us of home; the sound of keys locking reminds us of Hell. The nurses come for the baths are ready; the patients scream for the water’s hot, the flesh turns red at the water’s touch. The nurse called Bridget takes my hand, she leads me to the washing room, her hands rub me clean as my mother’s did; her eyes are blue as the distant sky; her voice melodic as a bird in spring. The chaplain comes with his bible and prayer; his eyes are black as the doomed and the ******; his voice bellows like the thunder of storms. He leads us in prayer like the blind leading blind; the Bible is read but the message is lost; the patients hum like the soon to be dead. I want my mother’s hold, my sister’s kiss; I want to hear the laughter of my father’s voice, his embrace against the storms that shake my mind.  Isolde comes; her hand in mine holds me fast; her lips are ever on my cheek, kissing me in her daily love, her voice tripping over words like a lame child’s run. We sit and watch the clouds pass by; we name each one with our special names, we see shapes in the formation as they pass. She cries in her sleep if her father comes, his ghostly shape and his spanking hand, her flesh shakes as he passes by. The doors of the ward are locked; the asylum holds us in a strong man’s grip; the nights go out as we twist and turn; Isolde creeps to my bed like a frighten child; we embrace in the darkness against the cold and ghosts; the keys rattle in our sleep; Isolde’s lips are pressed to my breast; the angels may come one night and grant us rest.”

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.

These lanes are very narrow
you said
walking with Jane

from the parsonage
where she lived
to where the farm road began

Are they?
she replied
I’ve never thought about it

just that the hedges are high
and the birds chock full
in them and their songs

Yes
you said
They are

and in London
there are no hedges
or narrow lanes

and the only birds
are sparrows
and pigeons

and you wanted
to take hold
of her hand

and squeeze gently
the flesh
and sense her pulse

but you didn’t
you put your hands
in your jean pockets

and gazed sideways on
at her and her dark hair
and her profile

and the scent of her
like lavender
as if she’d dived

into a wide field of it
and embraced
the flowers and stalks

What bird song is that?
she asked
No idea

you replied
moving closer to her
the scent getting stronger

the desire to be closer
taking hold but still at bay
It’s a blackbird

she said
You’ll learn them all
the birdsongs

and where and how
they nest and in what months
and you nodded

and saw how
the summery dress
moved and swayed

as she walked
the flowered pattern
like a field moved

by a soft breeze
and her sandaled feet
touching the gravelled lane

and you thinking
how it would be
for them to be held

and kissed by you
if she were beside you
lying in a field

or in one
of those tall woods
and you pursed your lips

and she looked up at the sky
her eyes gathering
the blueness

and whiteness of clouds
and she said
Monet would have captured that so well

and You
you muttered
He would capture you well

each aspect
of your face
and hair and eyes

and she smiled
and looked at you and said
I’d want to be captured by Renoir

have his arthritic fingers
clutching brush
and capture me

and maybe secretly
lust after me
and she blushed

and turned away
and you thought  
Oh yes yes yes

but said nothing
just gazed
and breathed in

her being
her beauty
all there

for you to view
the eyes
the hair

the profile
the way her lips smiled
and sway of walk

and the tall hedges
seemed to explode
with the wild bird’s talk.

Her mother prepared lunch
in the kitchen
as you and Christina
sat and talked

in the lounge
she looked back
at the kitchen door
and whispered

she's in one
of her depressing moods
she doesn't say much
when she like this

that's ok
you said
I'm just glad
to be here with you

you said
you put your hand
on her thigh
moving her grey skirt

she turned
and kissed you quickly
listening for the sound
of her mother's movement

in the kitchen
her lips on yours
her hand on your leg
her body close to yours

you could feel
her heartbeat against you
her warm hand
on your leg

the pulse of her
getting to you
and the sound
of her mother

banging about
in the kitchen
you paused from kissing
and sat back

her hands
in her lap
your hands
by your side

on the sofa
you couldn't believe
you were there
beside her

next to her body
her eyes focusing on you
you taking in her hair
and eyes

and the sound
of her mother's footsteps
getting nearer
her voice muttering

her approach coming near
and you moved over
and kissed Christina's cheek
the warm flesh

bearing away
on your lips
packed away
in your mind

like some treasure trove
as her mother came in
and brought two plates
and cokes

and put them down
and walked away
no words said
just that look

she gave
that eying
you up and down
that wondering

if you had or not
or if you would
behind her back
as she returned

to the kitchen's span
her ears alert
for sounds
you might make

the touching of lips
the smack of flesh engaged
her mind on edge
her nerves taut

as high wire
but you
and her daughter
just sat and ate

hoping to get down
to other things
(****** or otherwise)
at a later date.

Atara loved Dubrovnik
loved the old city walls
the shops and cafés
the churches and narrow streets

she liked sitting
drinking coffee
outside the restaurant

reading her
Schopenhauer book
a cigarette held
between fingers
watching now and then
people passing

Naaman had gone
to see a few sites
he said
rid himself
of his hangover
more like
she mused
by the sea edge
thinking
of the previous night
and too much wine
or Slivovitz

she sipped her coffee
even ***
had to be aborted
room swaying
he pronounced
although it was doing
no such thing
least not
in her head
lying in bed
wanting to sleep
not ***

she heard him snoring
some time after
from the bathroom
sprawled on the floor

the Schopenhauer book
was good even if
somewhat pessimistic
with that Eastern perspective
regarding the Will
and negation

she sipped the coffee
once more
but held the mouthful
sampling the flavour
the sense on tongue
the sensation
on the inner skin
of cheeks
warm and wet
and strong
but not bitter

she swallowed
and smiled
good
better than
the attempted ***
or that achieved
in recent months
and days

she loved Dubrovnik
and Naaman too
but he must
she mused
inhaling smoke
change his ways.

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.

At Auschwitz she died.
Some say along the wires
Her sad soul sings still.

You should have been
at my place
breakfast time
O’Brien said to you

in the playground
after double maths
with Miserable Morris
we’ve got my little cousin Millie

staying for a week
and she said
this morning
as we were sitting eating

what was Uncle
doing to you
in bed last night Auntie?
doing?

my mother said
in a squeaky voice
yes
Millie went on

he was on top of you
making big bear noises
and you were making
squeaky noises

like piggy
going to market
market?
my father muttered

almost choking
like we saw on TV
the other night
Millie said

just a game
my mother said
going red
I stared at Millie

waiting for more
what were you doing
out of bed?
my father asked

I wanted a glass of water
Millie replied
and stood
by your open door

and saw you
in the moonlight
from the window
fun game

my mother said
just fun
I smiled
said O’Brien

watching the parents
drowning over
their tea and toast
he guffawed

and Eddie joined
in his blonde hair
shaking as he moved
but you tried

to picture the scene
wondering what his parents
were doing in bed
in the moonlight

making animals noises
causing Millie concern
and guessed
it was some game

they played
as adult did
sometimes captured
but mostly hid.

After school
Helen’s mother took you home to tea
and she was wheeling

the big pram along the pavement
with you on one side
and Helen on the other

and she said
hold onto the pram
while we cross the roads

I don’t want anything
to happen to you
and as you crossed

the busy roads
you kept glancing over
at Helen with her plaited hair

parted in the middle
and her thin wired glasses
and her raincoat

buttoned tight
against the wind
and her small hand

clutching the pram handle tightly
and beside you
Helen’s mother

short and stocky
pushing and puffing
and her eyes dark as night

and kind at the same time
and when you reached their home
and went inside

and she took off your coat
you went with Helen
into the sitting room

with a coal fire blazing
and the smell
of drying clothes

and past dinners
and Helen said
do you want to see my dolls

and the doll’s house
my daddy made
out of boxwood

with lights you can turn off and on?
sure ok
you said

and you followed her
into her bedroom
where her toys and dolls

were laid up along the wall
next to her bed
and she took up a doll

and held her out to you
and said
this is my favourite

this is Jenny
and you said
hi Jenny how you doing?

and Helen smiled
her slightly goofy smile
and you liked that

her smile
and her eyes large as duck eggs
behind the thick lens

and she handed the doll
to you to hold
and you held the doll

and kissed the head
and hugged it close
thinking glad the other boys

can’t see me now
here with this girl
and kissing and holding

the **** doll
out of some small boy love
and shyness

and you know
they’d laugh out loud
and point their tough boy fingers

and you’re glad
they aren’t there
just Helen

and her little girl love and kindness
against their rough ways
and small boy toughness.

And she's no more
A ****** than that
Magdalene who

Dried the feet
Of Christ with
Her hair, said

O'Brien, giving
You the wink and
Nodding towards

The girl at the bar
With the skirt way
Above the knees,

Carrying a tin for
Some charity, laughing
With O'Connell, giving

You the eye and O'Brien
The pip and shaking
The tin around the bar,

Like some ***** in
Biblical times ringing
Their bell and old Mrs

Murphy smiled a smile
Broader than her hips,
And you shaking your

Young head, looked back
At the girl and her tin
And the way she walked

To the door with the
Backside sweet enough
To fill a thousand dreams.

Did your da ask you
For the ciggies? Kennedy
Asks, his nose holding
Onto a piece of snot, his
Lemony eyes giving you
The big stare, the chin

Stubbly and grey, the
Mouth, a deserted
Cemetery of broken
Tomb-like teeth. He
Did so, you reply, looking
Away from the eyes,

Taking in the cigarettes
Behind the counter of the
Small tobacconist shop,
Feeling the sweat on your
Collar, smelling Kennedy’s
Breath, the stink of tobacco

And ale, and Mrs Fitzsimmons
Behind you, scratching her
****, tut-tutting impatiently,
Jabbing you in the back with
The bony finger of her other
Hand, saying in her baritone

Voice: Are you going to give
The boy the ciggies or not
As my shitearse of an
Husband’s waiting for his
Tea and I need his old ****
Before he leaves for work.

Kennedy hands you the
Ciggies with the big sigh
And stern stare and you
Hand him the coins sweaty
And damp and smell the
Scent of fear and anxiety
Lingering in the evening air.

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.

Each morning Tess waited nervously
for the nursing officer to arrive on
the locked ward, and spot on time
each morning he came with his small
black briefcase and went to his office
on the locked ward of the asylum, and
after a few minutes she was allowed
in for her daily requested interview.

She sat in the chair opposite him, he
fresh from the sane world, sat there
with his brushed teeth and groomed
hair, intent look behind his glasses.

When can I get out of his ward and
home? she asked him each morning;
when we consider you are ready and
safe to be let out, he replied each day
with the same calm voice, the same
deep tones. And off she’d go to begin
another day with those whom she
considered mad or seemingly dead.

Every day at the same time they would
bring along the meals from the kitchen;
they would unlock the double doors,
bring in the trays of meals from a trolley,
leave the doors unattended for the time
it took to bring in the trays, and then
locked the doors again. Tess waited and
watched every time they came timing
by the clock on the wall how long it took
and how long the doors were unlocked.

This day she waited; time ticked slowly,
as she stood in her dressing gown by the
doorway to the bedrooms and watched
as they unlocked the thick double doors.

She waited until they unlocked the doors
and entered with the first of the trays,
then she ran like one possessed, out of
the doors and along the corridors and
heard the commotion behind her as she
ran, and the shouting and screaming and
calls, and the thundering footsteps behind
and then two burly male nurses tackled
her to the ground and held her there
beneath their mass and smelly breath,
seeing the lights on the ceiling flicker on
and off, not far away a woman screamed,
nearby she heard a man’s rough cough.

Take me to the movies
Sophia said

and so you did
and sat at the back

and was looking forward
to seeing the film

one you’d heard
quite a bit about

but Sophia
had other ideas

and they involved
trying to get

into your pants
or running her hand

along your thigh
in the darkness

or kissing your cheek
and whispering words

in her broken English
the Polish accent

still discernable
beneath the words

and rushing breath
and you only went out with her

because she’d been
pestering your

for weeks
or throwing you

on the beds
of the old folks

in the care home
while they were downstairs

in the lounge having lunch
or sleeping themselves

into a late death
and she said

why don’t you put
your hand on my thigh

the Polish sound
hanging on to each

spoken word
why don’t you try

and place your hand here
and she pulled

your hand into
the heaven

between her thighs
and as you looked up

some soldier in the film
was falling dead  

blood oozing
from many wounds

and there was you
in dangerous territory

trying to stay alive
fighting the temptation

and she saying
afterwards we go back

to my place
if my parents are out

and you flushed
and hot

hoped to God
they were not.

Your Aunt Edna
had asthma
and she carried around
a *******

asthmatic mask
which frightened
the life out of you
especially when

she put it over
her mouth and nose
and her eyes went
big and dark  

and she said
it’s ok Tony
nothing to worry about
it’s to help me breathe

and she managed
to laugh
and you kind of relaxed
and watched

as she sat down
and closed her eyes
and breathed in
and her breath

came back
of its own accord
and then she put
the mask down

and she was herself again
and her dark hair
was curled and wavy
and she looked like

an actress when
she wasn’t gasping
for breath
and didn’t have

that awful mask
over her face
and some days
she took you

to the park nearby
and watched you
run and play
or sat with you

on a bench
when she needed
to catch her breath
and you liked the park

with its tall trees
and wide green spaces
and the green
painted railings

that went all around
and there was that
gateway you went in
and you remember dogs

running and their owners
throwing sticks or *****
but you just sat
with Aunt Edna

as she put on her mask
to find her breath
and you and she
not knowing then

that hiding behind
the asthma
was ugly Mr Death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bath stuff
she lies down
and curses
and washes  

and knows Benny
is downstairs
with her mother
and God knows

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

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

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

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

back early
and they almost
getting caught
and  o Benny

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

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

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

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

You made your way from the john
to the dining table
and Auntie said

have you washed your hands?
yes
you said

are you sure?
Auntie asked
looking at you

with her fixed stare
and the black mutt
under the table

gazed at you too
I washed them this morning
you said

let me see your hands
Auntie said
and so you held out your hands

and she turned them over and up
and held them looking at them
you’re meant to wash them

after going to the toilet each time
she said
not just

when you get up
in the morning
she released your hands

and you looked at them
as if they were suddenly there
before you for the first time

so you had best wash them
Auntie said
before I dish up your dinner

and so you went back
to the wash room
and turned on the tap

and taking soap
between your hands
you washed and rinsed

and dried them
on the white towel
on the rail and went back

to the dining room
and showed your aunt
that’s better

she said
now go sit down
and wait for your dinner

and the black mutt
put its chin on your lap
waiting in anticipation

for titbits from your plate
and Auntie called out
from the kitchen

remember to say your prayer
before meals
and you said ok

and muttered
thank you for what I’m about to eat
may there be few vegetables

and lots of meat
and the mutt’s dribble
wet your thigh

its jaw lingering there
giving you
its dark eyed stare.

Auntie cut the rind
off the bacon
and offered it
to the dog

but before the dog
could put his lips to it
you made off with it
down the cast iron stairs

beside the barrack block
and the dog followed you
barking as it did so
and once you reached the ground

you went off
onto the grass
and the dog
chased you

and jumped up at you
trying to reach
the bacon rind
you held between fingers

and Auntie called over
the metal rail
let the mutt have it
don’t tease him

and so you bit
the rind in half
and gave the mutt one half
and ate the other yourself

but sometimes after Auntie
put the bacon rind
in the dog’s bowl
you picked it up

and tossed it
over the balcony rail
onto the ground below
and the dog raced down

the stairs after it
but now and then
you pretended
to toss it over

and after the dog
raced off
you would hold it
over the side of the rail

and called to the mutt
and said
I still got it mutt
and the dog raced back

up the stairs
and you sat there
on the metal landing
and the dog came

and licked and nuzzled you
and you gave the dog
the bacon rind  
and he licked you

and wagged its tail
and Auntie called out
what are you up to?
what are you doing now?

Honey Hopesapper hanged on an oak.
The wind caressed her.
The birds sang as normal.

The sky turned a little darker,
But no one came; no one saw.
Honey doped herself high.

Honey knew grief.
Knew the pinpricks of other’s indifference.
Honey had pinpricks scars.

She knew **** and cold nights.
Her daddy grieved her mom;
Her mom grieved her.

All grieved at death’s door, as if awaiting wolves.

A woman called for you today said Max’s wife.
Oh said Max who was she?
She didn’t say Max’s wife replied.
Well dames that don’t leave names
Aren’t worth worrying over Max said
Lighting up a cigarette and sitting
In a chair by the window.
She seemed to know you Max’s wife stated stiffly
Seemed quite put out when I told her I was your wife.
Dames are always put out over something or other
Max said noticing his wife’s beauty spot
And how it moved as she spoke.
She was a brunette.
Ah a brunette huh?
Yes a brunette his wife said.
Well? She said after a minute’s pause.
New York’s full of brunettes.
This one came to the apartment and rang our bell
And stood at the door asking for Max.
There are plenty of men called Max in New York Honey he said
Comparing in his mind his wife and the brunette
He’d met at a bar the other night.
She seemed your type his wife said sulkily
The type that sways her hips and sticks out their ***.
Yes I know the type Max said and sighed
They can never leave me alone.
I tell them I am happily married to the best dame in New York
But they seem not to hear Max said
Watching smoke rise upwards.
Best dame in New York huh? His wife said.
Sure you are he said taking in his wife’s plump ***
Hanging over the side of the chair like melted cheese.
She smiled and said must have been a mistake
On her part coming here and asking for Max.
Sure it was Max said dames sometimes make mistakes
They have no sense of direction.
His wife smiled at him sexily hoping.
Max smiled back and hoped for *******.

A woman’s touch. Yet to
another woman applied,
towelling dry, older, hands

slightly more worn, eyeing
the young woman, secretly
wishing. The young woman,

naked except the pink bow
in brown hair, thinking of
something other, not sensing

anything of the woman drying,
the touch, the towel, is far
from her thoughts, maybe some

boyfriend and his recent deeds
or words or both. The bath
had been refreshing, the water

just right, the older woman
always has it so, the towel laid
out, the soap prepared, washing

the back, places she cannot reach.
The older woman seems to take
her time, drying each area of skin

with some daintiness, a delicate
touch, wanting more maybe or
nothing very much. The younger

woman, feeling dryer, more in
touch with self, thoughts ordered
into place, takes no notice of the

other woman’s rub of ******* or
under arms, no thought of hers at
all, no grace, no charms, the recent

boyfriend, he who made to her such
passionate entering and kissings,
she feels like a fatted calf, some well

stuff bird, pleased with her self, her
sense of need fulfilled, the pleasure
dome having been reached and done.

The older woman drying now the thighs
has no wish to end her task, no other love
or want, except what’s there before her eyes.

No matter how much you try,
You can still hear your baby cry.

The doctors and nurses
Fussed about, gave advice,
Gave cold comfort words that
Fell from you like dying birds.

Maybe you imagine your baby
Lived, that secretly they stole her
And took to give to some other
****** up drained out mother.

You dream you have her in your
Arms and she comes to life with
A cough and splutter and opens
Blue eyes; her small lips wanting
To **** the dried up dugs, seeking
The absent milk, the warmth of hold.

Then you wake up with tired eyes
To dark dawn feeling the biting cold.

Some nights you feel her about drop,
The ghostly babe, and crouching by a
Wall, wait and feel the phantom pain.

Men passing by think you want to ****,
But all you want is love and baby back.

Baby day.
That was it,

that day her
baby died,

stiff and white,
the Teddy,

dumb looking,
sat staring,

just a toy
not caring.

Early day
is the worse

of all times,
when her world,

baby world,
ceased to be,

and numbness
took over,

dark hours,
days and months,

and now years.
None went there,

baby's room,
except her;

the husband
ignored it,

the others,
grandparents,

other kids,
past tense talked

baby's death,
turned blind eye

to the place
of the death.

She alone
visited

each morning
to check cot,

pat Teddy,
tidy up

the blankets,
one pillow,

and pull down
the toy string

making an
angel sing.

Then each night
she repeats

rituals
of palm blown

soft kisses
to the spot

where ghostly
baby smiles

phantom lips,
that no one,

except she,
and teddy,

ever see.

And she crossed the room
Hoping the baby
Would be there, and that
Maybe she got it

Wrong those months ago
And that the cot would
Be full again with
Sound and movement and

That baby chuckle
Noise that got her down;
But as she looked in
To the cot, the space

Yawned wide and dark black
And empty, and the
Only sound was the
Echo of that dumb

Silence eating at
Her heart, undoing
Her mind from the start.

The baby is never far
From your thoughts; each
Passing pram or pushchair
Nudges you into looking,
Into remembering, aching.

You try to turn your head
When some mother feeds
From breast some baby in arms,
You hold back the tears, when
Reflecting on how the small

Mouth opens like some frail
Fish out of water and you want
It to be yours, your breast
The baby latches onto, your
Eyes that the babe searches

In wonderment. Often nightly,
You tiptoe to the phantom cot
And gaze at the ghostly image
That ought to be there, never
Far from your thoughts, never

More than a fingertip away
Is the memory of that last hold,
That final gaze, that eased out
Wheeze and you left out in
Grief’s dark corridor and cold.

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

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

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

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

Glug glug glug goes Daddy’s bottle the beer going down his Adam’s apple rising and falling his eyes closed as if in some kind of prayer his lips over the end like a baby’s lips over its mother’s dug glug glug glug as he lifts the bottle higher and Mother saying nothing loud enough for him to hear but muttering by the sink her voice low pitched but angry and she casting him the over the shoulder look now and then but looking away as soon as she thinks he might see her but he doesn’t his eyes are still closed and you watch Daddy from the big chair opposite taking in his unshaven chin the closed eyes the wet lips the hairy hand holding the bottle his shirt open showing his hairy chest and the faded jeans stained and torn and Mother says Ain’t you got nothing else to do than stare at your daddy Molly ain’t there some chores you could do? She eyes you now her liquidy eyes focusing on you fixing you like some butterfly on a board her words catching your ears and pulling Bad enough him sitting there drinking without you just watching him and knowing there’s work to be done Mother adds spitting the words now so that phlegm sits on her lower lip and Daddy opens his eyes and looks around moving the bottle away from his lips and holding it in mid air his mouth open the tongue lingering there and he says What you looking at child ain’t you seen a man drinking before and as your Mommy says you must have chores waiting to be done and don’t gaze at me with those small beady eyes of yours get going before I take my belt to your little *** and you lift yourself from the chair and look at Mother standing there her hands wet from the sink wiping them on her apron giving Daddy the stare her eyes damp with soon to flow tears and Daddy goes as if to swipe you as you pass his large hand just inches from your *** and you run out into the porch and into the sunlight with the smells of the yard and hens and sounds and sensations and raised voices from within and you go sit over by the barn and let them get on with it breathing in the air letting your head feel freshness sense old and new smells and thinking what chores to do if any and besides they’ll not come looking for you or worry where you’ve got to and the chores can wait and you sit and watch the house listening to the voices waiting for the smashing of cups and plates and pans flying and cries and shouts but they don’t come just that odd silence and the house just standing there like some mausoleum and you watch a while longer your *** numbing as you sit there remembering that last stinging hand to hit your *** and redden and after a quarter of an hour you get up and walk slowly to the back door and peep in to see where they are to catch sight of them but they’re not there the room is empty the bottle on the table lying on its side and so you go to the stairs and listen for any sounds but hear nothing and so you take one step at a time holding your hands together fearing Daddy might appear at the top his big eyes gazing at you but he doesn’t appear and so you reach the top and wander along the passage almost on tiptoe not wanting for them to hear and then you hear sounds voices muffled and Mother moaning and Daddy grunting and you stand by the door with your ear to the wood wondering if Mother’s ok or if Daddy’s beating into her some as he does now and then wondering what Daddy’s doing to Mother and why she doesn’t cry just moans and groans and then you get unsettled and walk away and go down the stairs and sit in the porch and keep your ears open to sounds and sensing fear creep up your spine like Daddy’s fingers do some night under the covers and he pretends they’re spiders and tickle and tickle tickle and touch and touch and touch.