Father sings Russian lullabies as he drives
the coast road, the island like crushed glass.
We pass beneath the kissing trees.
One, two, three, four, here comes bunny for a run.
Five, six, seven, eight, here comes farmer with his gun.
Ready now, nine and ten…
I watch funny bunny burn in the living
room stove. Ember eyes shine and fade.
Synthetic fur shrivels as flames swallow
my beloved black and hollow.
My fist clenches a secret lock and I crunch
Frosties from a Beatrix Potter bowl.
“Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”
Tom Stoppard
Afterwards, mother offered
tea in bone china
spiked with roses, edged with gold.
The sugar tongs we never used
lay centre stage on the lace tablecloth.
His fingers struggled with the fine cup.
Mother looked away when a stain
bled across the virgin white.
In the next room, I smoothed down
the pleats of my school uniform,
pulling up my socks
as far as they would go.
The ambulance man with striking
green eyes stroked the inside
skin of her teenage arm as she lay
strapped (for her own safety) on the reeking
canvas of another NHS.
If you’re a lucky girl you’ll meet Jimmy!
She thought he was, maybe
trying to be nice (but those alien
fingers were electric…) No comfort
blanket, suspended in L10 skeletal
traction, legs akimbo and knicker
-less (for her own hygiene), a monster pain
-ted by Hieronymus Bosch. The male charge
nurse with watery grey eyes brought gin
secrets in a Barr’s Cream Soda bottle, hot
take-away through her open
window of gritty nights.
She thought he was, maybe,
trying to be nice (but gin made her sick,
she liked Babycham).
The glass half
-full on the sunny side.
Cheer up, might never happen,
said the porter with lizard pink
eyes taking her down to a strip
-lit basement, down corridors
lined with conduits.
If you’re a lucky girl you’ll meet Jimmy!
Daddy, do cows eat sunshine?
Daddy, does grass taste like spaghetti?
Daddy, why are the cows lying down?
Daddy, do cows have secrets?
Daddy, is mummy a cow?
Daddy, why is she lying on the grass?
Daddy, why is her skin like cold milk?
Daddy, is she staring at the moon?
Daddy, are there cows on the moon?
Daddy, where are you going?
Daddy?
I ponder reflections of reflections,
memories opaque as an ice fern lost
in a misty wasteland.
I wait to unfurl a dawn slate.
Note:- the end words of each line are anagrams, ‘reflections=ice fern lost’ and ‘wasteland =dawn slate’.
I climb a flight of water.
I let night over my head.
I fail to trim my ear with nail scissors.
I spin tales to fill my time
for the rule is that I should live.
