for amy

 

kitchen

my gran clears beer lines,

caustic fizzes in the sink;

round the kitchen table -

my baby walker now a car;

the scent of daytime beer.

 

the dog smells dead fowl;

yelps, pines for running,

my dad’s van and Sundays;

feathers as death’s proof;

heavy, high, hanging flesh.

 

vicious grins and woollen hair,

pagan gods of carved turnip,

fingers singed on waxy candles;

hard ancient stinking masks:

cast off into the night.

 

meeting his own path

later than he might,

my dad tunes a first guitar.

we burn the cabbage dry

by the effort we invest.

 

my head thick by thinking,

defeated, cold and weary;

gas rings lift the chill,

sweet porridge stops me,

holds me still in the dark.

 

secret kissing in early light,

his hip unexpected, sharp.

first mixing of want and need.

curiosity at what follows;

the listing of my greed.

 

chaotic years of babies,

learning how i am savage,

the freedom of that;

as they teach me battle:

now bloody for the fight.

 

my friend reads tarot,

i stir pans, roll pastry,

and the spread offers magic

now i know for certain

there is nothing but we’re here.