Saturday, a priest amongst days.
These poor hands receive the descent of man,
My rightful share in an illegal age.
I am a writer, not a fighter,
Searching old stories hidden under rock,
Of how angels never made it underground,
Then embracing an eleven-o-clock break
To consider whiff-waff and dildrams.
Don’t ask me what I mean.
Instead, consider grandmother’s glass eye
And her three hours of secret history.
The nanny state made me. I intend to enjoy it.
His history is bullet-pointed on laminated paper and pinned to his bedroom door. I never knew, after the war, he was a goalkeeper for Somebody United, winning trophies and medals. There’s nothing to suggest this amongst his sparse belongings on his small desk; a fading photograph, some medication and wet-wipes, and a half-empty jar of Everton Mints. We sit on his bed and stare into space, and I notice he has goalkeepers’ hands, huge and agitated, as he runs them along the fraying fabric of his trousers. I wonder what game he is dreaming of. How would I know? I wasn’t around often enough to be part of his fading memories.
Back to the shoreline, you stroked
with reverent fingers, weathered
wet and cold between the eyes
My sisters came and picked my bones
Caused salty scratches to the skin
A public nakedness for all to see
Soon forgotten as the earth passed
Above Kite Hill, you searched for the right breeze.
I waited, my manjha ready to cut.
Below, an assembly clapped and cheered
As a million eyes were averted
By sordid headlines and Sunday lattes.
Two words for rain unveiled a season in rural life.
Juno revealed she was married, where was her ring?
On a blashy day, she showed her face, hid froth
Collected from runny streams in summer showers.
Month by month another piece was exposed.
Some parts left obscured by the sun,
Others turned back into their own shadow.
I would love to be the girl she has become.