They all smoked in the garden
that night. Inhaling the chemicals,
the manic whirr in the lungs
of something toxic. Everybody there
wanted a piece. Their own segment
of you to cup in their hands,
taste whenever they pleased
as if you were red wine.
They wore woolly shirts
and stonewashed jeans. Bare feet.
Looking at you, a valuable gift
up for grabs. Voice like liquid gold.
Wishing you’d pick them
over the others, point a finger,
claim your prize. You had a hold
on their heartstrings and didn’t know it.
They said you were unattainable,
that you were hidden behind glass
and couldn’t be touched. Anger bubbled
between them, red kettle-hot.
Raised voices papercut the air.
I could understand.
You were glorious, untarnished.
A cleaner mind and cleaner arteries.
It was a rare and confusing thing
for them. Blonde hair, blue eyes
made their thoughts turn to flour.
You were sweet when all
they knew was acidic,
like a chunk of lemon
under the tongue.
As they squabbled in silence
we spoke. And still
they continued to smoke.

In the darkness
I hold the trickle of your whisper
like a falling feather

feel the contralto tick
of a heartbeat
skin against skin

holding each other
as if flowers
delicate in the breeze

tumbling through
a carmine flush
of desire

The thrill of it

nicking a Twix
from the corner shop,

a lunchbreak one day
in the mid-nineties

looking inconspicuous
between the chocolate

and packs
of smoky bacon crisps.

Sam pilfered
a Snickers, a Wispa,

we dashed outside,
ran back to school,

couldn’t believe it,
looking at our stolen goodies,

not a splash of guilt
alive in our minds.

As soon as the final cupful
of water was poured,
we’d hoist him from the plastic tub
and he’d jiggle as if electrocuted,
water flinging everywhere,
a wild tremor from head to tail.
Then we’d pat him dry
with a pink towel,
black hair glossier than ever
and he’d run
straight to the fence,
rub up against it
as if rubbing the freshness
out from his skin,
back and forth
with a goofy look on his face.

then you would be wrong.
I have many more words
to leak from my fingertips.

I think of the couple making love
to Calvin Harris songs;
what a way to annihilate
the purest of evenings.

I imagine the man with gums
coated in whisky,
the beat under his wisdom teeth,
tie slack around his neck.

I think of the body in the bath,
the stillness of such a scene,
the silent blush of crimson
like a throng of roses.

There are not just grim slivers of life.
I will catch the moments soaked in sun.
The pen is ready,
the poems will come.

Nine years later I find my old
my Geography book,

Wednesday afternoons
if I remember correct and there,

faded but still visible in blue,
T.M. 4 H.S.

and I’m transported back
to 2007 and the fizzy embrace

of a crush, the two of us
running around

in a gust of e-numbers
and holding hands under tables.

My husband calls from the other room
and the image dissolves,

snapped back to the present
as an elastic band, the initials fading further.

I talk to you
even if I have
nothing to say.

My car sounds
like it’s got food poisoning
but I drive it to your house anyway.

I wear the same dumb boots
because I wore them
the first time I saw your face.

I pile up your laughs
in my pockets so I can pull them out
if the day turns to mud.

I hate the way you’re leaving
because everyone leaves,
but I’ll keep your poem

on repeat,
the words will cool my veins,
rock me to sleep.