Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

And Blue Grass, that sickly-sweet scent which wafted up in the
                                                     small hours when I lay riddling
memories, reviving not only that urgent smearing of hated puppy-
                                                                                     fat limbs
with milky-blue whey from a squat exclusive bottle to make me
                                                                  fragrant and grown-up
like Annabel, my breasted menstruating friend, and gobbling all
                                                                         my pocket money
but also the Blue Grass of Wyoming, or was it Green, and long-
                                                               limbed colts and yearlings,
like Flicka, frolicking and cropping the shimmering pastures of
                                                                 Kentucky; these were
my twin obsessions, colliding care of Elizabeth Arden,
                                                                           responsible too
for my secret, a slim, ribbed bottle with brown velvet bow, of
                                                                    suspender-pink lotion,
that I shook and upended on wads of cotton wool and dab-dabbed,
                                                                       on my cheeks to stop
the blushes showing through: a chalky carapace to hide hot tides
                                                                   of shame and guilt that
caught everyone’s eye, and washed me up, day after day, and
                                                               which I didn’t understand.
And the odourless Odorono, peony-pink, in its stubby bottle, that
                                                                                 I pressed neat
into my armpits to dam the seeping pores which spoiled my crisp
                                                              Rich-Tea-coloured aertex
which Mummy begged from Dad because I had to have it to be in
                                                                       the marching display
and, what’s more, I was the tallest girl and the rear of the column
                                                                                so everybody
would look at me, and my brown shorts and my shirt, and in
                                                              desperation we even tried
those bulky dress shields, white half-moons you placed in the
                                crotch of your sleeves, which kept the outside
of the garment flawless and you in a state of perfect
                                                                               unnoticeability
which was my constant goal, like Mummy’s, and she was as keen
                                                                       to ignore the juices
that flowed out of sight, in soft downy places, as I was, chin up,
                                                                           and striding out
to a ripple of clapping and Colonel Bogey on a sward of
                                                                         immaculate grass.