Anny Horowitz
pressed her nose
against the glass
window pane

of Nero’s coffee bar
where you sat drinking
coke in ice in a glass
her ghostly

blue eyes
peered at you
a smile lingered
her small hands

were palm flat
on the pane
so that her lifeline
and headline were visible

where she pressed
you beckoned
with a nod
of your head

for her to come in
and she came in
and sat in the seat
beside you

her phantom
1940s clothes
seemed neat and clean
and her blonde hair

was ribboned
and looked fresh washed
Anny’s hand touched
the back of your chair

her eyes searched
about her
the fingers
of her other hand

toyed
with an empty glass
on the small
round table

she talked
in her soft voice
and asked about
the drink in the glass

and you told her
and she smiled
and was fascinated
by the bubbles rising

around the ice cubes
a couple came in
and a took a seat nearby
he went off

to order drinks
and she sat
and looked at you
then away again

not seeing Anny
sitting there
Mozart music
playing

in the background
Anny sat listening
her head
swaying slowly

to the music
she said
she remembered
the music

her feet
in black shoes
swung back and forth
under the chair  

she said
at Auschwitz
they played music
but it made her sad

to remember
you took out
your mobile phone
and spoke into it

did they play Wagner
at Auschwitz?
you asked
she said she thought so

the woman nearby
looked at you
wondering who
you were talking to

then looked away
what is that?
Anny asked
my mobile phone

you said
phone?
she said
it’s like the telephones

in telephone boxes
years ago
but smaller
and you can go around

with them
in your hand
Anny nodded
but the woman frowned

giving you a stare
you sipped your coke
nice and cold
refreshing

against heat
coming through
the coffee bar window
Anny gazed

at the woman
then put out
her hand
and touched yours

and it was cool
and soft like silk
as if a breeze
had blown

against your skin
you gazed
at her ribboned hair
her blue eyes

then she faded
and was gone
just the nosey woman
giving you a stare

not knowing
your little Jewish friend
had come and gone
and was no longer there.

Yehudit sat with her chin
on her knees and her hands
wrapped about her bare legs,
staring at the water of the pond.

Flies hovered over the water's
skin, ducks swam, birds flew
or sang. Baruch sat beside her,
hands on the grass either side
of him, watching the scene,
smelling her scent, liberated
(Yehudit claimed from her
mother's room), dabbed on
liberally. Marilyn Monroe's
dead, he said. Suicide I heard,
she replied. Or other, he said,
someone wanted her dead.

Papers say suicide, she said,
least ways she out of it. I liked
her, he said, many a guy dreams
of her I suppose. Are you one
of those? she asked. Is a guy
responsible for his dreams? he
said, turning his head, taking
in her profile, goddess like, he
thought, nose, chin, lips and all.

Who would you like to wake up
to me or Monroe? she asked,
giving him the steady stare.

You now, of course, he replied,
now she's died. Yehudit slapped
his arm, seriously even if she
hadn't popped her clogs? He
saw a rook fly across the pond,
noise attending, flap of wings.

You of course, he said, even if
she lived; you'd be my first choice,
he added in whispered voice.

She closed her, leaned her damp
forehead on her knees, hands
holding her legs tight. There
was no wind, just afternoon
warm sunlight. I dream of you
often, she said, here by the
pond, in the classroom, in my
single bed. He smiled at this,
wanting to give her lips a kiss.

He viewed her thigh out of the
corner of his eye. Her green
skirt had lowered down, thus
revealing such. He loved the
way she was: her hair, her eyes
open or closed, her lips in motion
or still, her hands at rest or play.

They'd not made it to her bedroom,
her mother was always around,
upstairs or down; they'd not made
his bedroom either (he shared with
his brother) and of course, he didn't
want to shock his mother. In dear
Yehudit's dreams of him they'd made
it it seemed, although he didn't share
because he wasn't there, which he
thought unfair. On the sports field
at school, I heard, you see another,
she said, her voice hesitant, her
words hanging in the air. Oh that's
nothing, he said, just a girl with
a crush, no big deal. So Yehudit
looked away. Sunlight danced on
the water's skin, warming flies
and ducks and fish beneath within.

He wondered how he lied. Words
came out of their own accord.
That other on the sports field,
who'd wormed into his mind
and heart, filled his night and
dreams (more than Monroe had
or did), but because he didn't
want to injure dear Yehudit's
mind or heart, he kept it hid.

No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.

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.

Bright Saturday
and Jane showed you
where the sheep’s wool
got caught along

the barbwire fence
on the top of the Downs
and she gave you
a handful and you

stuffed it in the pocket
of your faded blue jeans
and you both stood
looking out

at the horizon
the fields and trees
the farm and cottages
the church down below

where you sat
on the grass
last week
by the gravestones

and watched the sun
and clouds go by
it’s beautiful up here
she said

I love this spot
the slight breeze
moved her grey dress
flapping it gently

her hands at play
in front of her
sure is beautiful
you said

nothing like London
with its many houses
and flats
and churches

and factories
and other buildings
and smoke
and other things

to harm
I couldn’t live there
she said
I like the fresh

open spaces
and she breathed
in deeply
and you saw her

close her eyes
and the sunlight
caught her beauty
and you were moved

and touched by it
then she opened
her eyes again
and she talked

of the people
of the parish
and how she loved
the church

on a Sunday morning
and the smell of flowers
as he walked up
the aisle

and sunlight
coming through
the high windows
and as she spoke

you studied
her lips move
and how lovely
her eyes were

and you felt like
you wanted to kiss her
but didn’t
but just watched her

looking at her profile
the colour of her hair
the red ribbon
holding a bunch

at the back
and she put out a hand
and touched yours
and said her mother

liked you
and how unlike
the local boys
you were

and you smiled
and squeezed
her slim hand
her fingers warm

touching yours
and you both began
the slow descent
and all the while

she talked
of butterflies  
and wild flowers
and their scent.

He would, between
her gentle hands,

lay his head, like one
in sleep playing dead.

He would, if possible,
lay his tired body in

her lap, for her to tend
or make well again, or

her to ease or end the
pointless pain. He would,

if he were brave, plant
kisses along her brow,

wet and sweet, given in
love, not lust, but he has

small time, for this or that,
but loves her none the

less we trust.  He would,
if time had not robbed his

chance, placed his hand
about her waist and held

her near, but time has gone
and he has left with none of

those things above, we fear.

Benedict watched
as Mrs Fairweather
hushed her mutt
and told him to get back

in its box
under the table
and ushered Benedict
into the lounge

and to take a seat
on the blue sofa
recently bought
she said her husband

was away
on a long haul
(truck driver
of some sort)

and that she’d like
to know more
about Benedict
than she knew already

he sat there listening
to her voice
coming through
from the kitchen

tea or coffee?
she asked
or something stronger?
coffee’d be fine

he said
looking at
the landscape prints
upon the walls

after a short while
she came in
carrying two cups
and set them down

and sat beside him
her red skirt rising
as she put one leg
over the other

tell me more
about yourself
she said
looking at him

sideways on
one hand resting
on her cheek
the other

on her thigh
what’s to tell?
he said
and she told him

what she wanted to know
how long since
his last kiss?
who with

and how
was his pecker?
(laughingly put)
and she said she’d seen

a photo of him
some where
and all the time
her hand went up

and down her thigh
(which caught his eye)
what is that aftershave
you’re wearing?

nice and kind of ****
she said smiling
he told her what it was
some stuff his mother’d

bought for him
from the superstore
he could smell her scent
as she neared him

musky overpowering
and laid on thick
his mother
would have said

he sipped his coffee
and she sipped hers
then she put on a record
of the Kinks

and danced
on her way back
to the sofa
wiggling her backside

and **** as she moved
and Benedict wondered
if he’d made a mistake
coming over

at that time of day
or any time at all
then she kissed him
and touched him

and it was suddenly
in the deep end of the pool
wondering if he’d not got
out of his depth

her lips pressing
in on him
her hands searching
for his pecker

her words uttered
in a low voice
as if drowning
but what if?

o don’t mind him
he won’t be back
for days yet
but what if?

but the but ifs
were drowned
in her kisses
and her hand

had plunge into cloth
and sought out
the pecker
and Benedict imagined

Mr Fairweather
hot tempered
from a long haul
unhappy with

this kissing
and hugging
and all
entering the room

just as his shy pecker
had been exposed
and in the hands
of his wife

but it was all
in his mind
no Fairweather came
or saw or spoke

just she and Benedict
and the mutt moaning
from the other room
and the new blue sofa

beneath them
and the Kinks singing
and sunlight filtering
through the half closed shutters

blueness of sky
and Benedict
sensing her
and wondering why.

Miss Graham put on
the record player
a black LP

of some Beethoven stuff
and you and Reynard
sat at the back

of the class
writing down
other kids’ names

backward
or guessing
which girl

had the biggest ****
or had had their first kiss
and with whom

and Miss Snoot
down at the front
thin and gaunt

sat with her head
laying on
her folded arms

taking in
the music
her right finger

conducting
an invisible orchestra
her dark hair

brought tight
in a bunch
by a ribbon of green

and Reynard said
who'd kiss
her lips or cheek?

she's a titless wonder
he added
you wondered

how the music
had taken her
to some other place

how her finger moved
how her closed eyes
might one day

open on
an unexpected
husband

who would kiss
and do whatever
but Reynard had

undressed her
in his mind
describing each

and every article
of clothing he'd removed
and the music

had darkened
and grown heavier
and Miss Graham

scanned you all
through thin
framed spectacles

her eyes focusing
on Reynard
then you

then away again
and Miss Snoot
whose finger had retired

just lay there
seemingly asleep
like one too tired

whose thin frame
like one half starved
lay slightly in motion

to the music's drug
and despite
Reynard's rude words

beside in your ear
stirred in you
the odd desire

upon her cheek
and frame
to kiss and hug.

You took Fay
to Kennington Park
it being a fine day
and with no school

and her father
away working
and she sat
on the bus

there in her orange dress
which matched
her fair hair
tied in a ponytail

her brown sandals
and white socks
hands in her lap
her eyes large

in expectation
you sat beside her
in your checked
open neck shirt

and faded blue jeans
battered black shoes
you both swaying
to the bus’s motion

and when you got off
at the Park
she said hadn’t been
to the park before

and that her father
took them
to the park nearby
sometimes on a Sunday

after mass
if she’s been good
and could recite
the Pater Noster

right through
in  Latin
without mistakes
what the heck’s

the Pater Noster?
you asked
the Lord’s Prayer
she said

the Park was busy
people everywhere
parents with kids
and without

and kids
with no parents
and she was talking
about the nuns

who taught
at her school
how strict they were
and the girl who was hit

over the knuckles
with a ruler
for not knowing
the Credo all through

you didn’t bother to ask
what that was
but saw her eyes
bright blue

and looking around
the grass and trees
and bushes
and you both sat

on the grass
and you said
your parents brought you here
on Sundays

and you watched
the cricket or played ball
and sometimes
your old man

bought ice creams
or lemonade
and she talked
of her mother

and how she
had to work hard
to please her father
and sometimes

they rowed
and sometimes he hit
her mother if the row
got out of hand

and she went quiet
and looked at you
don’t tell anyone
she said

I’m not to speak
of what goes on
indoors
I won’t say a word

you said
what about an ice cream?
you said
I haven’t any money

she said
I have
you said
my mother gave me 2/6d

for doing chores
o yes then
she said
and went with you

to the ice cream place
and ordered two
and paid the coins
and got your change

and walked along
the path
she taking hold
of your hand in hers

and you sensed
the pulse of her
through your fingers
and the sun was warm

and the sky
a bright blue
with just 12 year old Fay
and 12 year old you.

Alma notices
the minutest

degree of chill
from him. He

may make love
and he may not,

but she can sense
if he’s been else

where in times
between. She can

smell another girl.
That time he said

all those words,
brought flowers,

perfume and chocs
and such, but she

knew they were
for some other or

seemed as much.
She looks at him

sitting there, that
glint in his eyes,

that devil may care
stare, that smile,

but all the while,
there’s some other

girl’s assets he’s
musing, some other

he’s had or soon will
do, he’s there, but

he’s not with you,
she says inside,

keeping it all in,
holding back tears,

stomach in knots,
heartbeat racing,

wanting him, but
not, trying to act

cool, but all too hot.
She allows him to

make love, feels
nothing, permits

his kisses, touches;
wonders who he

pretends it is he’s
making love to,

which one he’s
kissing in his head.

He’s gone now,
she’s undressed

and scrubs him
off as much as

water, soap and
brush allows. She

lies in the bath,
water like menstrual

flood, slit wrists,
cool dampness,

soaked in blood.

Auntie’s mutt followed you
around the army base
across parade grounds
and grass between trees

keeping out of the sun
you racing ahead
but the mutt keeping up
getting by you easily

its head looking at you
as if to say
you can't keep up
with me kid

but you tried
and then stopped
on the edge
where the army huts were

and stood staring at them
behind a little way
you could hear
some voice shouting

from a parade ground
and the sound
of marching feet
but there by the huts

it was quiet
except for bird song
and the hum
of distant traffic

Auntie had said
don't go
where I can't see you
but you had

and looking back
the place
where Auntie lived
was out of sight

must have run too far
you said
but the mutt just lay there
with its tongue

hanging out
panting
let's go look around
you said

so the mutt followed you
around the huts
and there were two
large gates

which were locked
and so you and the mutt
crawled underneath
and into the bigger

huts beyond
and you ventured forth
the mutt behind you
wagging its tail

and you looking
through windows spying
but seeing nothing
but desks and chairs

or iron bedsteads
in a long line
then you saw
an open window

and climbed the bricks
and peered in
and there was a whole bunch
of soldiers sitting

at desks
and this tall guy
with a moustache
bellowed out at you

and you leapt down
and made a run for it
towards the double gates
the mutt getting underneath

but you getting stuck
and the moustache soldier
and another pulled you out
and said

what you doing here kid?
you spying?
no mister just looking around
you said nervously

well where you from?
you told him
about your auntie
and how your uncle

was away fighting
some place called Korea
and you were keeping
your auntie safe

and he raised his eyebrows
and said
well keep out kid
go play elsewhere

and he opened up
the double gates
and let you out
and the mutt

was waiting for you
wagging its tail
its tongue hanging out
of its mouth

and you walked back
to Auntie’s place
hoping she'd not find out
and if she asked

where you'd been
you'd say
oh just over there
where the grass is green.

So I told her
Anne said
stomping around
on her crutches

like a demented Amazon
I told her
to go **** herself
Baruch blushed

at the word
his ears tingled
as if they’d been slapped
what did she say?

he asked
she said I’d go to Hell
for using words like that
Anne said

crutching herself down
by the children’s slide
and shooed away
the children playing there

I told her
I’d see her there
she added
Baruch scratched his head

what did Sister Paul
say to that?
she said
if she were my mother

she’d put me
over her knee
Anne laughed
and stomped over

to the children’s swing
where little Miss Sad
was sitting but who fled
as Anne approached

so you aren’t allowed
to go to the beach then?
Baruch asked
no Skinny Kid

or so she said
not to go
without a member of staff
he nodded his head

she pulled a face
he fiddled
with his fingers
she scratched

the stump of her leg
so what do we do?
he asked
his eyes caught

by the exposed
remaining part
of her leg
go to the beach

of course
she said
and stop gawking
at my stump

will you Kid
unless you want
to kiss it
he looked away

back at
the nursing home
behind them
what if she sees us?

she won’t
she couldn’t see a fly
on her nose
Anne retorted

but what if we get caught
down there?
he asked
think positive Kid

we won’t
they won’t miss us
no more than Sister Paul
misses ***

she said
Baruch hesitated
he hated getting
into trouble

felt uneasy
about the deed
shall I get
your wheelchair?

no then they will know
if you go wheeling that
across the grass
no we’ll walk out

the back gate stealthily
she said
he looked at her
and smiled

she stared back
towards the nursing home
he stared
where her stump hung

just beneath
the short skirt
then looked away quick
as she gazed at him

let’s go Kid
and she crutched herself
forward between
the avenue of trees  

and he followed
looking back
at the windows
of the home

wondering how many
eyes were there
but she was going on
at a determined rate

not caring a fig
leaving all things
to some unknown god
or fate.

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 *******.

Benedict met Mrs Cleves
in one of those
out of town bars
and they had a few drinks

and she told him
about her ex and
what a ******* he was
and how he used

to mess around
with those air hostesses
(he being a steward on a plane)
and he'd even boast

how many of them
he had had that week
and Benedict listened
and drank his drink

knowing that after this
they would go back
to her place
and drink more

put on some Delius
on her hifi
and have ***
on the sofa

or maybe make it
to her bedroom
if time and passion allowed
but she talked on

about her ex
and how she met him
after she came
out of the convent

(Benedict couldn’t picture
that scenario)
all innocent and pure
and thought love

had been found
Benedict sipped
the last of his drink
noticing how her hair

was like that French queen
he’d read about
who’d had lost her head
on the guillotine

and still she yakked on
about the ex
how he liked
fast cars and women

and drank too much
and disliked
her Scottishness
or her whiney voice

Benedict wondered
what she was like
back then
before the pounds

had landed on her
before age
had begun to settled
into features

and remembered
that time they had ***
on the sofa
and they’d fallen off

( too much *****
or what he couldn’t now say)
and the downstairs neighbour
had banged up

from the room below
and she said
shut the **** up
you old hag

and all said
in her Glaswegian tones
and they lay there
on the floor

she **** naked
and he semi clothed
with Mahler’s 5th bellowing
in the background

and as he came back
from his thoughts
she was still talking
of the ex

and he wished
she'd finish up
her drink
to get back

to her place
for more ***** and ***.

Through Bedlam Park
to the swimming pool
your towel and trunks
under your arm

the weather good
and Yochana said
she’d learn to swim
if it was the last thing

she did
and you went
to the locker room
and paid your coins

and got into your swimwear
and out into the pool
with the other bodies
getting wet and playing

and trying to swim
and Yochana came out
in her pink two piece
and stood

on the edge
of the pool
and you said
come on in

the waters cool
and as long
as some fool
don’t **** in it

it’s worth a go
she hesitated
standing there
arms in the air waving

flapping her hands
like some young bird
learning to fly
come on in

you said
but still
she stood there
on the edge

her blonde hair
held back
in a rubber band
what’s a matter?

you called
she closed her eyes
and kind of dived in
but more like

a fall sideways on
and you went to her
and helped lift her head
out of the water

and she was sputtering
and spitting out water
I christen you
Yochana the mermaid

you said and
she laughed
spitting out more water
get scared

she said
the thought of it
and she began to go
into swimming motions

putting arms in
and throwing them about
but she just sank
and you yanked her out  

and she stood there
water running down
her face into
her eyes

did I swim then?
she said
did I?
no you sank

you said
sank like a **** stone
can you show me?
she said

no I can’t swim myself
you said
well who can then?
she asked

go ask Ann
she can
or that plump woman
over there

she looks like
she can
you said
but she didn’t

she just walked
through the water
or made pretend motions
or sat down and tried

but no doing
but at least
she was laughing
and having fun

and you gave
the impression
of swimming
but it was all

just a game
and worth the coins
of getting in
and seeing

Yochana there
enjoying the water
and games
and water

in her hair
and ears
and eyes
and her hand

holding yours
if she felt
she was going under
or about to drown

and the water tasted
of god knows what
and the sky was blue
and the weather hot.

Shlomit sat
on the corrugated roof
of the pram sheds

gently kicking
the heels
of her battered

black shoes
against the brick wall
and she told you

her mother wore
more makeup
than usual to cover

the bruises
her father gave
but don’t tell anyone

she said
I’m not supposed
to say anything

mother said
you know
in case he hears

she mouthed off
to neighbours
you said you’d

tell no one
looking at her
beside you

her hair pinned back
with grips
her thick lens

spectacles
blowing up her eyes
her black skirt

and stained blouse
with the plastic
necklace you got her

from the fairground
around her thin neck
you’d seen her old man

crossing the Square
some nights
three sails

to the wind
singing sometimes
cursing others

and one day
you saw her mother
black of eyes

and spilt of lips
carrying shopping back
from the shops

you don’t wear make up
you said
guess he leaves you alone

her eyes looked away
her drowned kitten
perfume took

your nose
and as she moved
you saw the bluey

green skin
on her upper arm
but you knew he did

the screwball
talked with his fists
if his words failed

but Shlomit said nothing
of that she talked
of her wedding day

when she grew up
and how many kids
she’d have

and she having
a white dress
and a big house

although you knew
she thought it
even if

it wasn’t said
that her future husband
maybe like

her old man
or maybe just
a deep down dread.

Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest

bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek

and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings

put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said

gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here

and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult

in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left

of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away

the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered

washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what

her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger

at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room

was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor

a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand

with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest

and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew

you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know

will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house

you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight

seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared

and could you go down  
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight

Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old *****’s ***

and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old ******’s tricks

with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen

carefully
went out the door.

As you sit in the cafe
in the shopping mall
you see Sophie
and her man friend

smooching across
the table
he with moustache
and thinning

combed back hair
and she
with dark black hair
straight to the collar

of her white blouse
they purse their lips
he closes his eyes
leans forward

she likewise
as if
in some French cafe  
in some 1950s film

you sip your latte
watch the show
he once worked
pushing trolleys

in some super store
she unsure
but with a carer
sometimes seen

walking the mall
or in the bank
or shops
and some days

she’ll come up
and say hello
in a loud voice
as if she’d not

seen you
in a thousand years
other days not at all
or she’ll tell you

some news
about her life
or some small trouble
that’s got her down

today she sits
and kisses
and converses
with the man friend

and he’ll laugh
and maybe she too
and hold hands
over the cokes and cakes

you sit back
in the chair
and watch them there
repeat their kissing

or holding hands
the Romeo eyes
now open
leaning near

mouthing words
you cannot hear
she lips still pursed
says loudly

of a love
she feels
or how hot
the weather is

or how his scarf
untidy looks
or unbuttoned shirt
others who do not

know them sit
and gawk
and make snide comment
behind their hands

make judgement
in their bourgeoisie world
but you like others
who know them of old

sit and drink
and make no judgements
of what they say
or do but watch

the kissing
and holding of hands
like in a B feature
at the cinema

waiting for
the real thing maybe
but content to see
the movie through

having no where to go
or other things to do.

Yiska sits on the sofa staring.
Music on the radio, background
noise. Naaman walks the length
of the locked ward, right hand
in his dressing gown pocket.

White bandage, blood stained,
wrapped around his left wrist.  
Avshalom’s razor did the job
unsatisfactorily, he muses,
feeling the soreness where

the wound’s wrapped. Yiska
taps the sofa seat and beckons
for Naaman to sit beside her.
He sits down, hands on knees.
She’d found him in the locked

ward washroom wrist slit,
blood drenched. She talks to
him, low voice, muttering words.
The nurse at the desk eyes them.
Slit wrong way, Yiska says, the

Romans had it down to a fine art.
Naaman senses the wrist throb.
He smells her soapiness, wants
to wrap himself into her. Some
deem it a sin to take your life,

she says. Doesn’t matter a ****
once you’ve gone, she adds, tracing
a finger along his artery. More
ways than one to go, Yiska says,
reaching the bandaged wound.

Naaman says, I know, I tried each
in turn, failed me each. She smiles.
That hanging **** was a no no, she
says. Need to go beautifully, not
boggled eyed with protruding tongue

like some rabbit hung. The nurse
takes his hand and feels the bandage
hold. She unsmiling looks at both,
their conversation dumbed. Naaman
senses the nurse’s hands trace a

line around the wound. Unimpressed,
she moves away, eyed by Yiska’s dark
stare, watches the nurse talking to
another standing there. Makes work
for them, Yiska says, no feathers in

their caps if you break through to the
other side. Naaman sniffs her soapiness,
warms to her nearness, seeks to dissolve
into her otherness. Sylvia had it off to
pat, Yiska says, head in the oven dozed

to a death. Sylvia? Naaman asks, his eyes
skimming along her thigh where night
gown showed. Plath, she says, the poet,
back in 63. Naaman drinks in her dark
valley where her night gown gapes, his

black dog mood barks in his brain. Look,
Yiska says, pointing her finger window
wards, after the freezing snow, comes rain.

Miryam stands beside
two Arabs
and a camel
to be photographed.
Baruch presses
the shutter
of the camera
and the scene
is captured.

She pays
the two young men
and they walk off
with the camel
talking in
their own tongue.

She adjusts the bikini top.
Brauch puts away the camera.
Someone said
they expect to be paid,
she says.
Why not,
Baruch says,
watching her fiddle
with her bikini bottom,
her fine behind.

The Moroccan beach
is deserted, except
for the departing men
and camel further
along the beach.

She complains of the heat,
fingers her fuzzy hair,
stares at Baruch,
scratches her nose,
gives a Monroe pose,
hands on hips.
Take me like this,
she says.

He obliges.
He shutters the camera,
his eyes capture,
stores away her image,
in more ways
than one.

She talks of his drinking
into the small hours
in that Tangier's
night club
the guide took them to,
the belly dancer,
the snake charmer.

On the way back
to the camp
in the back
of the truck
with the others,
he remembers,
the kissing,
the embracing,
stirring his pecker.

She talks
of the early morning sky,
the smell of kebabs,
her feeling heady,
how she thought
he'd come to her tent.

Too tired,
he says,
besides I had to think
of your reputation.
Others would know.

I'm not a nun,
she says,
getting me stirred up
and then leaving to stew.

They walk hand in hand
along the beach,
the tide coming in,
touching their feet.
She talks of her parents,
medical professionals,
the boy she had a crush on
who went off
with someone else.

Baruch feels her pulsing
along the wrist,
his fingers holding there.

She talks of the other evening
when they came down there
to escape the noisy party
at the camp, the dancing,
the music, the wine.

He recalls the darkness,
the deep tuffs of grass
before the beach
was reached,
she and him,
kissing, embracing,
moonlight shining,
stars like scattered
sparkling diamonds.

No one missed us,
she says,
no one knew
about me and you.

He remembers
the echo of music
over head,
the gentle breeze,
distant voices,
her murmurings,
sound of sea
upon the beach,
both feeling
and touching,
giving pleasure,
each to each.

The sun was out strong
and there were ducks
and swans on the water
in the park

and Julie
was there with you
clothed
in her hippy dress

and her hair let loose
and unbrushed
in sandaled feet
beside you

on the park bench
she had her legs
out straight
in front of her

as if she were making sure
they were still there
need a fix
she said

need it
like hell
you took in her eyes
lightless as if someone

had switched off
the bulbs in the rooms
of her head
can’t they give you stuff

back at the hospital?
you asked
they’ve no idea
they’re stuff shirts

and narrow heads
she said
that ward sister
doesn’t no ****

you sat
and looked away
some kid
was feeding ducks

at the fence
enjoying the excitement
of the feeding process
lost on the less innocent

it’s all if you do this
such and such will result
and if you take
such and such

this may go away
she said bitterly
how about an ice cream
up there on the rise

of the hill?
you said
she pushed her hands
between her legs

as if to push back
the fix hunger
as if that will solve
the fix ****

she said
didn’t say it would
but it sure tastes good
you said gently

seeing the kid
clap her hands
for more bread
Julie got up

and walked away
and you followed
watching her hips sway
unsteadily

like a ship buffeted
by rough seas
she spoke over
her shoulder

said words about
her parents
the rich
middle class

suckers
about the do-gooders
who came
to the ward

with their bright eyes
and second hand faith
you just listened
walking beside her

her hands going up
and down by her sides
as if out of control
how about that ice cream?

you said
watching her eyes
staring ahead
I know what you’re after

she bellowed
either my soul
to save
or a quickie in bed

an old woman
on a park bench
gazed at her passing by
with that

o dear me look
in her ancient eye
you asked about
maybe take

in the art gallery
look at the Moderns
you had neared
the ice cream van

and she stood there
looking with her eyes
on the menu
on the side

hands motionless
and still
what are you having?
you asked

a fix if I could
but that ice cream
with chocolate flakes
and sauce

will do for now
she said
and so you bought two
from the Italian looking guy

and gave her one
and kept one yourself
and walked on back
by the water

and bridge
she quiet
slow walking
you eating and *******

no thought of ***
or her fix
or side room
*******.

You rode bikes with Milka
to the bridge over the river
and stood looking down
at the flowing water

and talked
of the latest
Elvis Presley film
you’d seen

and she said that she
had wanted to see it
but her mother
had forbidden it

saying it was not
the type of film
for her age
then you talked

of the film you’d seen
while working
as a cinema projectionist
called Ben Hur

and the great
chariot races in it
she leaned close to you
as you talked

her hands
on the brick bridge
her hips pressing
gently against yours  

she said she like it
when you came
to their farmhouse
and practised judo

with her brothers
and she could watch
and as she spoke
you studied her

her short fair hair
her large blue eyes
her delicate hands
the fingertips rubbing

against the bricks
of the bridge
the simple
green shift dress

she had on
and do you remember
that time you had them
both on the grass at once

in that karate fight?
she said excitedly
and you noticed
maybe

for the first time
her small firm bust
her figure
kind of huggable

although you hadn’t
hugged her
and she went on
about wanting to go

out with you
but her brothers
had said
Baruch won’t be

interested in you
he likes pretty girls
and you looked
at her eyes

as she spoke
how large they were
yet not unbeautiful
the orbs blue

portraying
wide worlds of you
and how old are you?
she asked

because they
keep saying
you’re too old
for me

16
you said
well
she said

I’m 14
so that isn’t
too old is it?
no

you said
seeing her eyes look
kind of watery
like small fish bowls

then she talked
of having seen you
in her dreams
and that in her dreams

you had kissed her
where did I kiss you?
you asked
on the lips of course

she said
no I meant
where abouts
was I when I kissed you?

o
she said blushing
in the barn
by the farmhouse

o I see
you said
never having been
there with her

only with her brothers
to do judo fights
she looked down
at the water

her eyes wide
and watery
a bird flew by
a bird song sounded

you leaned close to her
and kissed
her ear
through her

fair hair
and she looked at you
and you saw
new worlds

being born there
amongst the blue
Milka smiling
at an older you.

Henry was walking
with his wife
along the sidewalk
in the city

looking for some cafe
she knew
and wanted to go
when he saw this young dame

in a wheelchair
with long hair
and fine features
pushing the wheels

with her hands
and she had these
leather fingerless gloves
and he thought

who puts her in
and out of the chair?
who holds her close
to them and smells

the shampoo
in her hair
feels her small *******
against them as they hold?

who gets her in
and out of the tub
or in and out of bed
who washes her back

or wipes her ***?
She had wheeled herself by
but not before
he’d taken in all

that he could
the jeans she wore
the white tee-shirt
the black shoes

the pretty lips
the way she gripped
and pushed the wheels
his wife was yakking

about some dress
she’d seen
in some store
and wanted to go

and look and maybe buy
but the passing dame
had caught his eye
and he wondered how

she got to be in the chair
accident or from birth
disease or some beat up
that went wrong?

He couldn’t ask that’d
be too rude and besides
she was well on
her way now

and his wife was striding
on with determined gaze
but he couldn’t get
the dame out of his head

her sitting there
with her long flowing hair
and those eyes
and the constant questions

of who did what for her
and how did she
do this and that
and who lifted her up

and out? was it some
strong guy some
dedicated hunk?
Or maybe her mother

and father did the job
of getting her in shape
and bathed
he thought

and did she *****
like other dames
have some fond lover
who played the game?  

All the questions
and no answers
made him wonder more
even later in the cafe

sipping the his latte
while his wife yakked away
and even later that night
in bed besides his wife

who snored
he pictured the dame
beside him
a paraplegic model

or an art piece
that he adored.

In lunch recess
you made your way
to the sports field
Reynard going on

about some girl
in class
who he said
had navy-blue underwear

saw them
when she was going up
the stairs this morning
on the way to maths

he said
the sun was out
in full blaze
and he said

you’re not off
to see that
13 year old *****
are you?

she’s a year younger
than I am
so what’s
the big deal?

you said
but what about
the kick around
with the other boys?

you saw Christina
on the grass waiting
she was sitting on
her school jumper

being too hot
to wear
girls are a downfall
Reynard said

leave them
to softer fellows
but you parted from him
and walked to where

she was sitting
you hearing
Reynard’s voice
over your shoulder

what’s a matter
with your friend?
she said
he wants me

to kick a ball about
but I’d rather
be with you
you said

let’s go for a walk then
she said
and got up
from the grass

and brushed
her grey skirt down
then took your hand
and you walked over

the grass
and she talked
of her morning
of dreary lessons

and how
that morning
her mother had ranted
about her untidy room

and the leaving
of clothes everywhere
you listened to her speak
taking in her nose

and eyes
and how
her lips moved
and her hand

was becoming damp
in yours
and you sensed
her pulse

in her wrist
and how it beat
and she talked
about her big brother

how he was always
where she was
and then
she became quiet

and as you reached
the fence that enclosed
the school grounds
you watched

the traffic pass by
like prisoners gazing
through wire
at a far bluer sky.

You stood with Ingrid
on the grounds
at the back
of the bombed out

butcher’s shop
on Harper Road
she looked anxiously
about her

her eyes large
behind her
wire framed glasses
are we allowed to be here?

she said
I don’t suppose so
you replied
but who’s to know?

and you walked along
the broken up pathway
to the back
where there was a huge

refrigerator with the door open
she looked in
her hands holding
each other nervously

what if someone got locked in?
she said
the lock’s busted
you said

you can’t be locked in
she looked at the lock handle
which had been
broken off at the end

you peered
in the back door
of the shop
smelling the staleness

and damp and ****
where some old *****
had probably slept the night
or used it as a ******

what’s that smell?
she said
holding her nose
between finger

and thumb
some tramps
****** in here
I suspect

you said
he’s not still here is he?
she whispered
no he’s long gone

they don’t hang around
in daylight
you said
she didn’t look

convinced
and leaned close to you
taking your arm
don't worry

you said
I've got my six shooter
in my pocket
and you patted

your jacket pocket
she looked through the door
you moved inside
and took her with you

her hand clutching
your arm tighter
Holy Mary Mother God
you heard her whisper

you entered the shop
and looked around
at the empty shelves
and the discoloured slab

where they used
to cut up the meat
her hand gripped
you tightly

as you moved into
the passageway
she whispered more
holy words

her eyes large
her small fingers
almost white
on your arm

don’t worry
you said
I’ll not let anything
happen to you

she looked up the stairs
that led up
from the passageway
what’s up there?

she asked
bedrooms and living room
I expect
you said

you climbed the stairs slowly
she held your hand
following behind
you listened for any sounds

her breathing laboured
her hand tight in yours
at the top of the landing
there were three doors

and an open space
where there was a lavatory
and a broken sink
you took her in

through one of the doors
into a room
where the roof
had a huge hole

showing the sky
in the corner
was a discarded bed
with broken springs

and a wardrobe
with the doors hanging off
you took her
to the window

and looked out
onto Harper Road
you smelt her near you
that mixture

of peppermint
and dampness
like one not quite dried out
after rainfall

you both watched
the traffic go by
her hand rubbing
against yours

her 9year old skin
against your
9 year old skin
Innocent as daisies

no sense of trespass
or grasp of sin.

On Yehudit’s
first weekend off
from work
she met you

by the field
near the stables
arriving in her
cotton dress of green

and that raincoat
left over from school
and she said
been waiting long?

no not long
you said
although you’d been there
ten minutes or more

feeling the cold
bite into your skin
couldn’t get away
Mum wanted

this done and that
she said
leaning against
the fence

thought you might
have changed your mind
you said
why would I ?

she rubbed her hands together
to warm off the cold
said I’d be here
and I keep my word

she said
you sensed her uncertainty
the words sticking
in your mouth

we used to be closer
she said
none of this distance
between us

she knew about
you and Yiska
knew what there was
to know

the fact that Yiska had gone
made no difference
betrayal had been done  
she sat on the fence

and looked out
at the frost covered grass
you sat on the fence
beside her

her knees showed
where her dress
had risen
she had a laddered stocking

what was she like?
Yehudit asked
I mean did
she kiss good?

you looked
at the laddered stocking
flesh showed
yes she was good

you said
did she let you?
she asked
let me what?

you said
looking away
from the stocking
your eyes

meeting hers
you know let you do it?
she said
pushing the words out stiffly

as if the frost
had got to them
does it matter?
it’s history now

you said
it matters to me
she said
her voice

getting tighter
she looked
at the field
green and white

I guess it does
you said
we didn’t anyway
there wasn’t the place

or opportunity
you added
watching rooks
in the grey sky

their calls
filling the air
Yehudit looked at you
her eyes glassy

but you wanted to
she said
even if you didn’t
you breathed in

the icy air
you remembered
that you and she
had made love

in some woods
back behind you
the evening
had been warm then

flesh to flesh
heart sensing heart
I’ve met someone at work
she said

breaking through
your thoughts
I wanted you to know
not discover

and feel betrayed
you sensed a loss
bite you
a falling away

beneath your feet
I’m pleased for you
you lied
she climbed off

the fence
her feet sinking
into the frosted grass
see you around

she said
and walked off
across the field
you watched her go

sensing the cold
and the falling of snow.

Yehudit lay on her stomach,
chin propped on her hands,
staring over the pond, she
called their lake. Ducks were

there, floating like small boats
on the water’s skin. Naaman
lay beside her his head leaning
on his hand. Last time they had

laid there they had just made
love in the dense woods behind.
Early evening that had been,
moonbeams played on the

surface of the water, the night
cool. She had been concerned
of her mother’s rebuke because
of the lateness. The *** would

have been beyond her mother’s
grasp. You used to fish here, she
said, turning to look at him. I got
bored, he said. I used to swim here

as a child, she said, until one of
the gamekeepers saw me and
informed my father. What did
your mother say to that? he asked.

Father didn’t tell her, he told me
not to swim there again. I missed
that then, he said, smiling. Yes, you
did, she said. It was hot that summer,

I wanted to cool down.  Maybe it
was like a baptism? he said. In the
****? she said. Maybe it was a new
kind of baptism, he said. It nothing

like that. It was innocent fun, she said.
He touched her hand by the pond’s
edge. Her fingers squeezed his. Her eyes
smiled. The sunlight filtered through the

branches overhead, glimpses of blue sky
reflected on the water. That evening we
made love back there, you said you loved
me, she said, did you mean that? Yes, of

course, he said. It was special to me, she
said, not just the making of love of you
and me, but the evening and the moon
and the stars and the smell of you and me

and the flowery smell of it all. He watched
as a duck took off from the pond, its wings
outspread, breaking the air, and she looking
at the pond’s surface with her far away stare.

Once you entered
Diddling’s small church
it cooled you both down
from the summer heat outside

Jane looked about her
she’d been here
many times before
but wanted to you show you

and let you feel
the coolness
and silence
and peacefulness

I came here first
as a child
she said
but more often at St Mary’s

at the other side
of the village
I wouldn’t have thought
any place could be

this quiet
you said
the church smelt
of flowers

and old plaster
some one had placed
a mixture of blooms
in the vase by the altar

she walked forward
her hand brushing
against the tops
of the wooden pews

on either side
one could get married here
she said
if you had few guests

and friends
you said
gazing at her dark hair
pulled tight

in a ponytail
tied with red ribbon
her light green dress
fitted loosely

her sandals held
her bare feet
maybe one wanted
few guests

maybe just a few witnesses
and the clergyman
she said softly
turning to look at you

her dark eyes
captured you
and held you fixed
for a few moments

one day perhaps
she said
doesn’t your father
come here?

you asked
occasionally if the need arises
she said
mostly he’s at

the other church
come and stand
at the front with me
she said

you walked towards her
watching her eyes
and her mouth
the lips slightly open  

you stood next to her
at the altar end
the light coming through
the high windows above

she smelt of lavender
you could breathe it in
your head swayed with it
imagine us here

she said
pretend it’s our
wedding day
and we are here

and the pastor
and a couple of people
as witnesses
she held your hand

in hers
her warm flesh
her thumb
on the back

of your hand
stroking slowly
would we sing hymns?
you asked

yes two
she said
closing her eyes
and we’ll pretend

the ***** played
at the start
and finish
she added

she sniffed the air
and plenty of flowers  
around us
and bridesmaids?

you said
she thought
in silence
for a few moments

yes two small girls
from the village
she said
her hand got warmer

the dampness
linked you
and who
will give you away?

you said
father of course
she said frowning
she opened her eyes

and looked at you
too many people
have come
she said

it crowds my mind
and dream
then let it just be us
and the parson

and two others
you said
she nodded and smiled
it’s good to pretend

and imagine
she said
maybe one day
it will be real

the sunlight played
and danced
upon the floor
at her feet

her thumb rubbed
deeper in to your skin  
and you both walked
down the aisle

in silence again
outside
came sound
of warm summer rain.

Naaman met Amana
as she was on her way
to the shop for her mother.

He was counting out change
in the palm of his hand.

The morning sun
was coming over
the fishmonger shop,
the sky was grey blue.

She spoke
of her parents rowing,
how she never slept
until late,
a series of slaps,
then silence,
she said.

Naaman put the change
in the pocket
of his school trousers;
he saw how tired she looked,
even though her fair hair
was well brushed,
there was a haunted
look about her.

He knew of rows,
slammed doors
at night,
weeping into
the small hours
from his mother’s room.  

Amana showed him
the list of shopping
she had to get.

He showed her his.
Doughnuts are warm
from the shop,
we can share one,
he said.

Won’t your mother mind?
she asked.
You can only eat them
once she’ll say,
Naaman replied.

They walked to the shop
across Rockingham Street
and entered in.

The smell of warm bread
and rolls and coffee
being made.

He stood behind her
as she showed
the woman her list.

Amana had on
her school uniform,
the dress well pressed;
the white socks contrasted
with the well blacked shoes.
Her hands were at her sides.
Thumbs down,
soldier like.

He had held that hand
home from school once,
warm, tingling
with the pulse of her.

That time on the bombsite,
collecting chickweed
for the caged bird
his mother kept,
she had kissed
his cheek.
Never washed for a week
(least not that part).

He could smell
the freshness of soap
about her
as he neared to her.

The woman handed
the shopping over
the counter
and Amana paid in coins
which the woman counted.

Naaman handed
the woman his own list.
Rattled the coins
in his pocket.  

Amana waited;
the bag by her feet.
She spoke
of the Annunciation
being taught at school,
the Visitation of an angel.

All beyond Naaman’s grasp
at that time.
He knew of catapults
and swords ,
of old battles in fields,
and the Wild West
where he rode
his imaginary horse.  

He wanted to kiss
her cheek as she
had kissed his.
Shyness prevented.

She spoke
of the ****** birth
the nun’s spoke of,
the wise men coming
from afar
following a star.

Naaman liked the stars,
the brightness of them,
the faraway wonder
in a dark sky.

After he had received
his shopping and paid
they walked back out
into the street
and crossed to the *****
that led to the Square.

Then beneath
the morning sun,
bag in hand,
she leaned close,
pressed her lips
to his cheek
and kissed him there.

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.

Noga watched
the other girls play.

Skip rope or
ballgames
or groups
in idle chatter.

She was left out,
an outsider,
she said
it didn’t matter,
but deep down
it did.

The others
had new dresses
and shoes,
their hair shone
with the washing
each day,
spoke about her
as she went by
their way.

The boys preferred
the pretty girls,
the ones who shone
or outshone her
or who promised
them more
as they giggled
and swooned
and swayed their hips
or pushed out
their tingling ****.

Their parents
picked them up
in posh cars;
she walked
the long trek
on worn-out shoes;
their parents spoke
with clipped voices
and la-de-da tones;
hers spoke
or shouted
or pushed out
groans or swore;
blamed her bruises
on arms or legs
on the usual door,
to those who cared
or casually stared.

Noga watched the girls
kissing boys,
saw their lips meet,
their hands in play,
but no boy kissed her,
no lips met hers,
no hands in play
sought to touch
her skin.

She only had
pretend romance
or maybe dreams
of shining knights
on big white horses,
no real love,
like other girls
with their
hot lip kisses
or overt ***
and intercourses.

Shlomit (whom most
of the boys disliked)
stood in the playground
holding one end of the

skipping rope while another
girl held the other end as
another skipped. Her wire
rimmed spectacles stayed

in place as she moved, her
holey cardigan had seen
better days, her grey dress
had been handed down so

often that it shone like steel.
Naaman stood and watched
her from the steps leading
down to the playground. She

sometimes smelt of dampness
as if she’d been left out in the
rain and brought in to dry over
a dull fire. He looked at her dark

hair held in place with hairgrips,
the hair band of a dark blue
remained unmoved by her motions.
Some girl pushed her away from

the end of the skipping rope and
she walked to the wall and stared.
That seemed unfair, Naaman said,
you were doing your bit ok. Shlomit

looked at him with her nervous eyes.
They always do that, she said; never
let me play for long. He stood beside
her; he could smell dampness mixed

with peppermint. Maybe you’re too
good for them, he said. She smiled and
pushed the hair band with her fingers.
Her nails had been chewed unevenly,

he noted, her fingers were ink stained.
Would you like a wine gum? he asked.
He held out a bag of wine gum sweets.
She put her fingers into the bag and

took one and put it in her mouth.
Thank you, she mouthed, her finger
pushing the sweet further in. Naaman
walked with her up the steps that led

up from the small playground and stood
on the bombed ground and looked down.
There used to be a house where the
playground is now, he said, it got

bombed out. The playground was
once the cellar. Oh, she said, I didn’t
realise that. The bombs missed the
school, shame, he said, smiling. Daddy

said I ought not talk with boys, she said,
looking at Naaman then quickly around
her. Why’s that? he asked. She looked
at her fingers, the thumbs moving over

each other. He said boys were rude and
mischievous, she said. I guess some are,
Naaman said. She looked at him. You
seem all right, she said. But you are still

a boy and he might find out I talked to you
and then there would be trouble. How
would he find out here in the playground?
Naaman asked. Someone might tell from

here that saw me, she said anxiously.
Last time someone told him he beat me,
she added quietly. She pushed her hands
into her cardigan pockets. Best go, she said.

I like you, Naaman said, you remind me of a
picture I saw of a girl standing beside Jesus
in that Bible in the school library. Do I? she
said, did she have wire-rimmed glasses?

No, Naaman said, but she had a pretty face
like yours. She laughed and took her hands
from her pockets. He saw two reflections of
himself in the glass of her spectacles behind

which her own eyes gazed out. Maybe it was
me, she said playfully. Oh, yes, he said, taking
her thin ink stained fingers in his, no doubt.

Anne sat in the wheelchair
in the huge back garden
of the nursing home.
The stump of her leg ached,

the one good leg rested
on the footrest. She rubbed
the stump as if this might
ease the aching. She’d get

Skinny Kid to push her out
of the back gate when she saw
him, he was one of the few
kids who seemed to like her,

and often did things for her
where others wouldn’t.  
The little girl named Sadd
was like a fairy: thin, gaunt

looking, whose shoulder blades
stuck out like small wings.
She was on one of the swings
being pushed by one of the

nursing nuns. Where was
Skinny Kid? she mused. His sister
was over by the slide going up
and sliding down. The boy called

Malcolm was hiding in and out
of the avenue of trees playing
war games with some other boy
with a snotty nose. She wheeled

herself along the stony path.
How’s your leg? a girl with burn
scars on her arms and shoulders asked.
Why don’t you ask the fecking leg,

Anne replied roughly. The girl stared
at the impression of the stump just
under Anne’s dress. I’ll tell Sister
you swore, the girl said. Go kiss your

****, Anne said. The girl ran off and
Anne wheeled herself a little more
along the path. Then she spotted him,
Skinny Kid, coming out of the French

windows at the back of the nursing home.
Hey, Kid, she bellowed, over here.
Benedict walked over to where Anne
was sitting, her hands on the wheels

of the chair.  What did you want?
he asked. Push me out the back gate,
she said, I can’t stick being out here
with all theses kids. Ok, he said and

pushed her along the path, between
the avenues of trees to the back gate.
Where are we going? he asked as they
reached the gate and he opened it up

and pushed her through. Along by
the beach, I need the sea air, need
to fill my lungs with it, she said.
He pushed her along, his arms

feeling her weight, his legs like
small pistons. Thanks, she said,
for helping me in and out of the
bath the other night. That’s ok,

he said, recalling her calling him
into the bathroom the other night,
she standing on her one leg by the
bath in a white towel. Help me in

Kid, she had said, I don’t want
one of those nuns touching me while
I bath. He had helped her in trying
to avoid looking at her naked body

as she put her leg over then he had
to ease her down making sure the
stump didn’t bang against the bath rim.
He closed his eyes, having caught a

glimpse of the stump on its way into
the water. He pushed the wheelchair
along the smooth path, avoiding the
other people, trying to hear her mouthed

instructions, watching the top of her
dark haired head. She had said he had
to wash her back in the bath as she
couldn’t reach and he did it softly not

wanting to scratch her or such. Harder
than that, Kid, she had said, I want to
feel the skin rubbed not fecking tickled.
So he scrubbed harder, looking at her

neck and her damp hair.  Hey, Kid,
she said breaking into his thoughts,
got any money on you? I’ve  got half
a crown, he said. Then buy us two ice

creams, Kid, over there, the guy who
looks Italian in that van. So he pushed
her over to the van and bought two
ice creams with strawberry sauce and

he sat on the wall with her parked
beside him licking their ice creams
in silence except for the sound of gulls
and the sea going in and out pushing

the waves up the shore, she watching
the Kid, his tongue white with ice-cream,
his eyes bright as summer. Her stump
ached still; she’d get the Kid to rub it after

the ice creams; feel his hands on her skin,
as she sometimes dreamt, he did in her dreams.

You managed to ***
enough money
out of your old man
to take Janice

to the cinema
in Camberwell Green
didn’t your father mind?
Janice asked

no
you said
but he had queried
why the old biddy

couldn’t afford
to give her
granddaughter money
when he was strapped

for cash himself
but you had given him
your lost puppy eyes look
and he gave you

the money and got on
his bus to work
no he didn’t mind at all
you said

as you both waited
for the bus
on the New Kent Road
she wore her green

patterned dress
and red beret
her brown sandals
and white socks

you were in jeans
and white tee shirt
Gran said to be near you
all the time

because there are
some strange men
out and about
Janice said

like that one
who touched you
in the cinema
the other week

she added
yes the creep
you said
I told the female usher

and she soon rooted
him out of there
with a flea in his ear
then the bus came

and you both got on
and sat on
the side seats
and you paid

the bus conductor
the fares
and the bus went off
and you swayed

side to side
with the motion
of the bus
and some middle aged guy

opposite you
gave Janice the eye
through his thick
lens spectacles

lowering his gaze
to her knees
the tip of his tongue
sliding across

his lower lip
Janice looked away
you stared
at the guy

giving him
your Robert Mitchum glare
and he lowered his eyes
then looked away

mumbling
under his breath
then got off
at the next stop

and you fingered him
on his way
at Camberwell Green
you both got off the bus

but she never spoke
about the guy
and his creepy gaze
but took your hand

and you both walked
to the fleapit cinema
where you paid
and went in

to the big screen
and noise
and coloured film
blazing out

at you both
as you took
your seats
her hand

still holding yours
her eyes gazing
at the screen
as if the guy on the bus

and his stare
had never been.

Helen pushed
the second hand
doll’s pram
over the bombsite

off Meadow Row
Battered Betty her doll
was tossed
from side to side

there there
Helen said
can’t be helped
you walked beside her

practising drawing
your silver coloured gun
from the holster
your old man

had bought you
from the cheap shop
through the Square
you hit back

the hammer
one two three times
just like that
I can’t get her to sleep

Helen said
stopping by the ruins
of a bombed out house
she tucked the doll in

with the woollen blankets
her mother had knitted
Mum said to take Betty
for a walk in the pram

but she still won’t sleep
you put the gun back
in the holster
and pushed back

the black hat
your granddad
had given you
have to keep her quiet

around here
you said
there might be Injuns
and they scalp hair

off babes and kids
and such
Helen looked
around the bombsite

looks deserted to me
she said
pushing the pram away
from the bombed out house

you never can tell
you said
they hide  
and when you’re least

expecting it
they come screaming
over the plains
Mum said you’d make

the best husband
for me
Helen said
coming to a halt

opposite the coal wharf
you drew out
your gun again
and fired shots

over your shoulder
that’s nice of her
you said
twirling the gun

over your finger
and then back
into the holster
Mum said

you would make
a good dad
one of the horse drawn
coal wagons moved away

from the coal wharf
and clip-clopped
along the side road
perhaps

you said
we could get our own
house on the prairie
or one of those houses

off St George’s Road
with the big gardens
Helen got
Battered Betty out

of the pram
and rocked her
over her shoulder
patting her back

and said
yes and I could milk
the cows and you
could hunt buffalo

and we could sleep
in one of those
big beds
with buffalo skins

over by the main road
a red number 78 bus
went by
and dark clouds

crowded
the less
than blue sky.

Dalya met Baruch in Oslo,
a small cafe in a back street;
he was eating a cream cake

and coffee. She was fuming
over the Yank ***** that she
shared a tent with back at

base camp. It’s like sharing
with a scented skunk, she said.
Baruch listened, the fiery girl

sat opposite him, stirred her
latte, spat out words. Baruch
was halfway through the Gulag

book, the Solzhenitsyn eye
opener on the labour camps
of Russia. Dalya’s gripe seemed

pretty shallow; her language
left little to the imagination,
rough words, hard chipped,

chiselled out of rock sort of thing,
he thought, watching her mouth
move the words. Always about

the men she’s had, Dalya said,
as if I cared a monkey’s. Baruch
forked in more cake, fingered

off cream from his upper lip
and licked. They’d picked up
the American in Hamburg,

squeezed her into the overland
truck with the others. And oh,
yes, where she's been, Dalya said,

she’s been under the Pope’s
armpit, no doubt.  She sipped
the latte, stared at Baruch, her

eyes dark blue, her lips thin, her
hair dark and curled. Maybe she
has, Baruch said, but what’s it to

you? I have to hear her jabbering
on in the tent night after night,
Dalya said, and me trying to get

to sleep. You can always swap with
me, he said, she can share with
the Aussie prat, who’s in with me.

She didn’t reply, but looked at her
latte, stirred with the plastic spoon.
And what would my brother say?

He’d tell the parents when we got
home. Baruch knew her brother
wouldn’t have minded, he was often

drinking and drunk till blinded.
Baruch had only suggested it in
jest, nothing really meant, but she
was preferable to the Aussie in his tent.

Chana, having made love
with young Baruch, went
to get more wine. Did she
need to get another? She

thought, she was old enough
to be his mother. The LP of
Bruckner he had brought
still played on the hifi; she

preferred Mahler’s fifth.
The kitchen light had a
mellow glow. She poured
more wine into the two

glasses and returned to
the bed. He was laid there
like some young prince,
proud and youthful, head

full of ideas, morals gone
to the wind, seemed happy
to have had her and sinned.
She put down the glasses

and climbed into bed. Him
and his Marxism, she thought
as he talked of Das Kapital.
She placed her hand on his

pecker, life enough yet,
stirred, moved. She could
smell the *** in him; the stir
of a young stallion. Her long

ago husband was never like
this even in his youth; she
was well rid of him, him and
those airhostesses, those

whom he said he had quite oft
and where. She smiled at young
Buruch lying there wine in hand
talking of a revolution that would

never come, his pecker stirring,
his words becoming slurred with
the taking of wine. That first time
he had her on the sofa; oh, that

took her back some. He drained
his glass, put on the side. He was
young enough to be her son, she
mused, watching him stir and

prepare, her young stallion with
hazel eyes and dark brown hair.

Baruch sipped the wine
Geula the waitress
had brought; he watched
her walk away, her hips

hypnotic, the sway of them,
dream inducing. Red wine,
sour, table used, not the best.
He rinsed his mouth, then he

swallowed.  How she could smile,
he thought, the lips of her,
the teeth, the red tongue.
He could dream of course,

dreams are cheap, cost
nothing, are in the end,
nothing. He could watch her
for hours; see her walk the

restaurant in the evenings
serving meals and wine,
the smile always in place,
that swaying of hips, hands

busy, the eyes bright lights.
Some evenings he stayed until
late, she on her last legs,
about to go off duty, seeing

him, stopped to say goodnight.
She said she was not permitted
to date guests. Too complicated,
she supposed. Hotel rules, she

said, nonetheless. She smiled
and walked off. He could dream
she had said yes, of course where
shall we go? Wherever you wish,

he would have said. Knowing
nowhere, he would have left it to
her to choose. Where would that
have been? What cost? He watched

as the last glimpse of her disappeared
beyond doors. The last glimpse of hers
hips and swaying behind. The music
faded, the restaurant lights dimmed.

He stood up, walked away and stood outside.
The moon was full; stars like sprinkled
diamonds, lit the sky. One last look,
he thought, then off to bed, to see
dreams of Geula within my head.

On the coach
between Paris and Tours
Mamie was seated
next to you

her head
of frizzy hair
against your shoulder
her eyes closed

her mouth ajar
fish like
the valley between
her small **** visible

as she lay there
rocking slight
to the coach’s motion
music coming through

the radio
some Mozart piece
you looked
at her hands

in her lap
small and curled
like sleeping *****
her bare arms

sans hair but freckled
and you looked at her
and sensed her head
against you

knowing some brain
buzzed beneath
her frizzy mane
thoughts exploded there  

were explored
or put aside
sleep be drugged
like some child

in fairy land maybe
you studied her knees
just visible
where her

red skirt rose
flesh on flesh
how through Paris
in the coach

she had pulled
your hand
into her lap
held it there

the pulse of her
beating through
her garden of Eden
beneath the cloth

then the Mozart
piece ended
and Beethoven began
thunderous and loud

pushing through
the speakers
stirring Mamie
beside you

her lips moving
mouthing words
her hands opening out
the palms upright

you looked beyond her
at the passing scenes
of France at night.

Milka wanted Benedict
to take her across
old Tom Dubbin’s bed,
(the old boy was down stairs

in the lounge
waiting for death);
she’d put aside
her mop and bucket,

unbuttoned
her light blue
overalls,
but Benedict

had refused,
said it wasn’t
the time or place.  
But still she lay,

her blouse undone,
her skirt hitched up,
pouting her lips.
They won’t miss you

for a short while,
she said, besides
who will know?
Benedict tidied

the sink, washed
away the spit
from the old boy’s mug,
straightened the towels.

I could always scream
and say you wanted
to take me here,
she said.

He pulled back
the yellow curtains,
opened up
the windows.

For everything
there’s a season,
he said,
this is not it.

What if I say
you pushed me
on the bed?
she said.

They know you,
Benedict said,
they think you’re a
***** anyway;

they know me,
know what I’m like
and will say, no way.
Milka got off the bed,

pulled down
her skirt
and buttoned up
her blouse,

tidied her
blonde hair.
One day you will,
she said,

one day.
Maybe, he said,
one day, yet in
his mind or in sleep

at night, he often had,
taken her,
as she called it,
across some

old boy’s bed,
but so far not
for real, just inside
his young man’s head.

You met Julie
in St James’s Park
as was arranged
(better than some

pokey hole
at the hospital
she’d said)
she clothed in jeans

and open necked
blouse
a thin jacket
on which

she lay
and you’d already seen
the ducks and swans
and the telling

of her latest
cold turkey plunge
and four lettered expressions
of the nursing staff

you lay on the grass
beside her
taking in
the sun

and sky
her talking
along side you
you seeing her form

from the corner
of your eye
she smelt
of oranges

fresh pressed
her voice carried
bittersweet
her hands conducted

in the air
some invisible
orchestra
you remembered

that sexuality
she exuded that day
at the hospital
how it was then

the best *** ever
she’d said
love this place
she said suddenly

breaking out
of her tale telling mood
my parents
bless their

middle class souls
brought me often
as a child and
on she went

words spun like silk
and you laying there
taking it all in
wondering if she’d

break out
of the grip
of her addiction
wondering if

she thought of you
each time she undressed
in that ward
before bed

that best ***
of all times claim
still ringing in your head
where after this?

you said
oh
she said
there’s this cafe

I adore
in Leicester Square
we’ll go there
and that was it

all sorted
except it wasn’t
as such
the future

is some distant land
you may never reach
some shore
you’ve dreamed of

and ached for
many times before.

Elisheva pinned back
her hair, her thick lens
glasses enlarged her eyes,
she eyed her lips
fresh red lips ticked.

She pressed
her lips together
as she’d seen
her mother do
to spread the red.

She put away
her makeup case,
clipped up her bag.

Tuviya took in
her plump frame,
his eyes wandered over
the tight jeans and top.

She had ordered
latte and cake.
The counter girl,
thin and pale,
took money
and tilled away.  

He followed her
as she walked
to a table
in the corner
where another sat,
a female of older years,
plump but not fat.  

Elisheva mouthed words,
gestured with hands.

Tuviya studied her
with an artist’s eye,
took in fingers, nails,
gestures and moving lips.

Imagined her
in his studio,
the sharp light,
the battered sofa
holding her frame,
her hands in lap,
her naked *******
like piglets
in deep sleep.

A girl served Elisheva
her drink and cake,
then walked away.

Tuviya drank
his Americano,
his eyes moving over
Elisheva’s moving hands
and lips, the taking
of the latte and cake,
red lips opening
and closing
like fish on land.

He painted her
on his mind’s canvas,
set her down
with inner eye,
shaded in
the dull beyond,
filled in
with inward paints
her outer being
as he saw.

He could have
snapped her
with his Smartphone
camera, captured
in the state of now,
but it may have
spoilt it all,
he thought,
somehow.

She licked her fingers,
removing crumbs
and cream of cake,
mouthing each one.

He smiled,
imagined another game,
which she’d not play,
he thought,
least not here
and now in this cafe.

She talked on,
her fingers clean,
the dampness shining
in the overhead lights.

Tuviya closed up
the studio in his mind,
put away
the inner paints,
the canvas set aside,
she on the inner artwork,
on battered sofa,
legs spread wide.

Chanan studied Shlomit
from afar. She sat
with a man and a child,

talking, smiling at least
on the man’s part.
The child played games

on her mother’s iPod.
Chanan noted unease
in Shlomit’s features,

eyes behind spectacles
looked at the man,
more at the child,

whose tiny nimble fingers
played on.  The man laughed,
teased the child, Shlomit

eased out uncertain smiles,
hand on her coffee cup,
other hand in her lap.

Chanan took in
her sandaled feet,
the red painted toenails,

the hair pulled
into a bun.  
He watched as she

raised the cup
to her lips,
sipped,

gazed at the man,
talked.
The man, legs crossed,

hands holding
a mug of tea,
his head to one side,

seemingly to enquire,
spoke in turn.
Chanan over

his Earl Grey
watched the child
at play,

the fingers intent
on her game,
her mother beside her,

eyed her,
losing interest
in the man’s chatter,

touched
her daughter’s hand.  
Chanan sipped his tea,

looked away,
carried his images
in mind, set

a different scene,
of a different kind.
The man and child

not there,
just Shlomit
and he

setting sail
in a small ship
on a vast wild sea.

Kempton showed Benedict
his collection of knives,
long, short, sharp and blunt.
That’s a German one my Dad
bought back from the War,
he said, taking one out
and showing with pride.

I expect it plunged a few bodies
before he choked it.
Benedict took the knife
and ran a finger
along the blade.
Sharp and coming to a point.

His own collection of knives
was small (dangerous things
his mother had said)
and kept in a drawer.

Dad took it
from this dead German’s belt,
took other things as well,
a photograph of some German girl
or so Dad said, pretty and smiling.

Benedict gave back the knife
and looked at others,
all sizes and lengths.

This one’s Russian,
Kempton said,
plunged a few Krauts I guess
before the Russian caught it
in the back, he added,
his dad having informed
some time before.  

Benedict liked the Yank knife best,
took it into his hands
and sensed the holds
of yesteryears, the fingers
having touched, the bodies
entered, the blood sensed,
the fears felt.

After a while Kempton
put them away,
feeling content,
proud of his collection.

Benedict thought it swell,
his own small collection
of knives would be
no one’s envy, tucked
in the drawer
with his vest, pants
and handkerchiefs
and that tie his auntie
had bought of red and grey.

Kempton and he left
the Kempton household
and went across the Square
to begin their wars in play.

Naaman takes note
Of the woman Sarah
as she passes him by.

Her blonde hair
and blue eyes
have him enthralled.

His cappuccino is too hot
to drink as yet, so
sits and watches
as she walks by.  

She is tall,
her figure upright,
her sway is
as a fine ship
about to set sail
across calm seas.

He thinks of her often,
imagines her stopping
to talk, not just
walking by unaware
he watches.

He spoons the top
off the coffee.
Wipes cream
from his moustache
with a napkin provided.

Sunlight comes through
the glass roof, he feels
like some tender plant.

She pauses by a shop window,
stares at dresses and tops
and the dummies wearing
them, perfectly figured.

His eyes drink her in,
sup up her beauty.

There is bare flesh
upon her neck
where the top
of the dress ends.

Her hair touches it,
sweeps it
as she moves away.

Naaman closes his eyes
to file his images.
He opens his eyes
and she's gone,
only space
where she'd been.

The space is empty now,
but holds what he's seen.

Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.

She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers

enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down

and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time

she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;

it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.

She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat

them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs

on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me

as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would

scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,

but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had

miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.

Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;

she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window

and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking

pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.

Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.

They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him

before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes

to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t

reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off

his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches

merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.

Christina sat at the dressing table
to brush her hair, the hairbrush
her aunt had given her, in her hand.
She was still in her nightgown,

her school uniform
was on a chair by the bed,
the bed still unmade.
She looked at her features,

her hair a mess, her eyes
still had sleep in them.
She brushed her hair slowly,
a hundred times, her mother said,

does it best. She dragged the brush
through, pulling through the knots
at the ends. She thought on Benedict,
her friend's brother, the boy she

had become smitten by. She wondered
if she'd see him today; unless she
waited by the school fence and peered
through when his school bus arrived

and he descended and went by the fence
into his playground, she might not.
Maybe if it was fine and they were
permitted to go out on the sports field

she would. They'd met the first time there,
after his sister had told him that
Christina liked him. Thinking about
him now, made her feel excited, made

her insides turn over, not nastily, but
weirdly, as if fingers stirred inside of her.
She had dreamed of him the night before,
dreamed he had sat at the end of her bed,

and she had wanted him to enter, but
he just sat there talking. She stopped
brushing her hair and put the brush down
on the dressing table. They had kissed.

Hard to find a place at school where
they could be alone. They had found
a few moments in the gym during recess
a week ago, just them, the smell of

sweating bodies, gym shoes and feet.
They had their ears pricked for any
sounds, but then kissed. Lips on lips.
His tongue met hers, touched, strange

sensation that, she murmured to herself
sitting gazing at her reflection in the mirror,
as if she'd touched a live wire, it tingled,
rather made her feel open, wide open as

if someone had pressed something within.
She daren't tell or ask her mother even
if her mother wasn't in one of her low moods.
Only when she menstruated the first time

did she mention to her mother about her body.
Oh you'll get use to it, her mother said,
the curse women have to put up with.
Sometimes in bed or when she got out

of the bath, she would put her arms about
her body and pretend it was Benedict,
imagined it was he doing the caressing
and holding and touching. Time to get

ready for school, she thought, taking out
of the photo of Benedict out of the drawer
and kissing it. He gave it to her after she
had given him one of herself. Not a good one,

she had to sneak one out of the photo box
her parents wouldn't miss. Benedict liked it,
said he kept it somewhere safe. His was
good, her damp lips had left an impression.

She wiped it off and held it against her *******.
She sighed. At night she kept the photo under
her pillow and took it out to kiss before
going off to sleep. She put the photo away

again and stood up. Time to get dress
and get down for breakfast before her
mother bawled out up the stairs to her.
Out of the window she could see blue

skies, a sun was rising. Might see
Benedict after all, she said, taking
off her nightgown, and letting it slip
to the floor. Oh to see him always,
and see him more and more and more.

It was the day after
JFK got blown away
and Judith saw Benedict
briefly after work

outside the gas station
where he worked.
Shame about the President,
she said, I quite liked him.

Yes, ******, Benedict said,
why do they do that?
Why blow away a good man
When there are plenty

of bad buggers to blow out.  
Judith looked up at the moon;
her coat was buttoned up
tight to keep out the cold.

How are you? she asked.
Benedict gazed at her.
So so, bored with the job,
**** gas and oil and all that

moaning from the customers.
It comes with the territory,
she said. Apart from that then?
she said. He smelt her perfume;

it was different from her usual.
New scent? She smiled. Yes,
glad you noticed, she said.
Bought it from my own money

instead of having to borrow
my mother’s. That other stuff
was your mother’s? Yes, she said.
God, no wonder it was bad, he said.

She hit his arm. Only joking he said.
How can I tell with you? she said.
When I smile, then I’m joking.
She sniffed the air. Frost coming.

He looked at her walking beside him,
her hands in her pockets, her headscarf
on her head, her hair escaping,
the moonlight catching it.

Cold? he asked, I know how we
can get warm. Not tonight and not
how it went before, she said.
Shame, he said, the moon’s out full

and the stars are bright.
Do you love me? she asked.
Of course I do, he said.
Then wait, she said.

He wanted to hold her hand,
but it was shoved in her pocket.
Can I kiss you? he asked.
She stopped by the roadside.

The hedgerows were like
small dark walls, trees stood
like silent giants. She took out
her hands and held him close

and they kissed. It was the first time
they’d kissed in a while, he
recalled the time before, her lips had
pressed lightly then, half not wanting

to, half unsure. He sensed her lips
there, the pressing was firm, her
warmth warmed him. He held her
about the waist, wanted to touch

her skin, her nakedness. Their
lips parted. They stood looking
at each other. He saw her eyes
catch moonlight, tears reflected.

She sensed a growing apart, she’d met
another, at work, in the town,
wasn’t sure where it would go.  
Benedict sensed uncertainty there,

something out of place,
a connection loosened, despite the kiss
and hold. The darkening night,
the biting of the cold.

Bernice sits in the seat of the bus
and moves to its motion.
She smiles at the thought
of Ariadne dressing that morning;

the slow removal of the nightgown,
the hands holding and lifting
over her head; the brief nakedness;
the pulling over her head

of the I LOVE *** tee shirt;
the slipping on of blue jeans.
Once dressed she leaned over
and kissed Bernice’s head.

Come on you lazy *****,
get yourself out of that
love nest, she had said.
Someone sits next to her

on the bus; disturbing her
thoughts; breaking up images.
She looks at the person
beside her: a man of forty

something. She looks away.
Ariadne is constantly in her
thoughts. She knows her well.
She can sense her presence

even without seeing her.
She knows each part of her body
as she dies her own; has lain
in the arms and felt the small

bosoms press against her.
Her one fear was the loss of her;
the taking away of her being;
the coming of age and death;

the coming of illness and departure.
Live for the day, Ariadne said,
tomorrow’s fiction. Bernice closes
her eyes; brings to mind Ariadne’s face;

the look of her; the eyes;
the way the lips moves;
the sway of her hips when
she moves from here to there;

the feel of her finger along
her skin; that closeness, that
love, what others call sin.

Between biology
and double maths
Christina met Benedict
in the recess

of the tuck shop
and the passage
that led off
towards the hall.

As the other members
of her class walked on,
she in whispered voice said,
I won’t see you

on the sports field lunch time
because of the ****** rain.
He moved in closer,
sensing her body press

against his
in the small space.
It might clear up, he said.
Her hands wrapped about him,

she pulled him close.
But the grass will still be wet
and they don’t let us out
if it’s wet, she whispered.

He knew that, but wanted
to feel her breath against
his skin as she spoke.
The moment seemed to be

lacking of the motion of time.
Silence filled the air about them;
the darkness of the recess
seemed lighter as their eyes

grew accustomed
to the dimness.
Miss you most
when I don’t see you, she said.

Her hands squeezed him near her.
He sensed her soft *******
against his chest.
I look at your photo

and when no one is looking
I kiss it, she breathed out
as she spoke.
I keep your photo tucked

in the small wallet
my mother bought me, he said.
he smelt her hair;
it had a scent of fresh flowers.

She pulled him in closer;
his hands felt the small
of her back, his fingers
sensed the pulse of her heart,

through the white cloth
of her blouse. The toes
of their shoes touched,
she leaned in and kissed

his cheek, moving in damp
moves toward his lips.
The small space seemed
to hold in a silence except

of their words and breathing;
their eyes grew accustomed
to the dimness of light, each
saw the others' eyes.

Foot steps drew near,
the pitter patter on linoleum
floor, they broke apart,
held hands, squeezed themselves

against the door
of the tuck-shop recess.
A teacher walked by;
unnoticed they breathed out,

hands squeezing.
The sound grew fainter.
Best go, he said, late for class.
She kissed him again,

her lips pressed hard
against his. She went out
of the recess and off
along the passage.

He stood a few seconds,
then followed; she had gone,
the dampness still clung
to his cheek and lips’ skin.

His pulse of heart raced
like the engine of a racing car,
he paced the passage like
some pilgrim without guide or star.