Once upon a time
Alison Southcott had the perfect skirt for our new game
as a present for her twelfth birthday.
Stone-washed denim and flared,
it was jean-buttoned straight down the front
from the waist to the hem.
She’d wear it round to my house, where we’d do our getting ready.
Rote-learning our poses from posters
by Toulouse Lautrec, from car ads.
Then we’d punk our hair up, smokey-khol our eyelids, roll on cherry lipgloss.
Alison would undo all the buttons of her skirt, bar four.
And I’d roll up my dress on one side, tuck it in my knickers.
We were set.
When we heard Mother go into the kitchen, we would slip
outside the house,
down to the pavement.
Lean against the lamppost.
Share a cigarette.
We showed one leg and scowled and pouted at the passing cars.
Shouted after
the six o’clock dads driving home for their dinners
who hadn’t the bottle to stop.
Draped ourselves across the parked Cortinas.
Smart girls both, of course we knew the risks.
And so we had a plan.
That if a car should stop, we’d leg it back to my house
where we’d laid out our disguises.
So if some bossy cow knocked on our door, we’d be quite safe.
I am so sorry, she would say to Mother. I’m mistaken.
I was looking for two girls in yellow cardigans, not pink.
So sorry to disturb you now. Good bye.
And we’d be free to walk the streets again.
That was then.
That was back in the days when every breath would charge your
lungs
with spangled oxygen.
That was back in the days when we were princesses.
as a present for her twelfth birthday.
Stone-washed denim and flared,
it was jean-buttoned straight down the front
from the waist to the hem.
She’d wear it round to my house, where we’d do our getting ready.
Rote-learning our poses from posters
by Toulouse Lautrec, from car ads.
Then we’d punk our hair up, smokey-khol our eyelids, roll on cherry lipgloss.
Alison would undo all the buttons of her skirt, bar four.
And I’d roll up my dress on one side, tuck it in my knickers.
We were set.
When we heard Mother go into the kitchen, we would slip
outside the house,
down to the pavement.
Lean against the lamppost.
Share a cigarette.
We showed one leg and scowled and pouted at the passing cars.
Shouted after
the six o’clock dads driving home for their dinners
who hadn’t the bottle to stop.
Draped ourselves across the parked Cortinas.
Smart girls both, of course we knew the risks.
And so we had a plan.
That if a car should stop, we’d leg it back to my house
where we’d laid out our disguises.
So if some bossy cow knocked on our door, we’d be quite safe.
I am so sorry, she would say to Mother. I’m mistaken.
I was looking for two girls in yellow cardigans, not pink.
So sorry to disturb you now. Good bye.
And we’d be free to walk the streets again.
That was then.
That was back in the days when every breath would charge your
lungs
with spangled oxygen.
That was back in the days when we were princesses.
Jillian Fenn comes from Lancashire and now lives in North London.
Page(s) 33-34
magazine list
- Features
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- Agenda
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- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
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- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
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- Orbis
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- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The