Skinheads, 1978
His face, black like olives
"Do you want to dance?"
I could feel myself sweating
He was too
My skirt was wet; if I moved
from the wall he'd think I'd pissed myself
“Do you want to dance?"
If only we weren't in
the bloody church hall
with all the young baldies'
pale blue eyes staring over
tawny pints and stale
beef sarnies
"Do you want to dance?"
He was tall, taller than me, taller
than anyone thereHarvest Sunday
The petals of flowers around my neck
falling like peeled skin
The scent of them stronger than opinion
Yes, I want to dance
Page(s) 20
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