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

His shadow by my bed again:

the hooded stranger
stares unspeaking;
this hangman on the door
approaches...

His crushing on my chest,
a dolmen crashing to the ground
to pin me down, unnoosed and yet
unbreathing.

He flips me over, wider,
thrusting sacrificial happenings
inside me, pain for which
I have no name.

My heart in demisemiquavers
thrums the ceiling, shamings soil
the sheets, my screams unscreamed
suspended in between

dreaming and awakening.

***

Half-full, half-empty:
the steaming bed entices me
to sink beneath its sheet of foam,
soak dust, oil tensions,
float in aloe vera.

Night's shrinking sphere of soap
stares sallow through the window,
tides my breathing, waxing, waning;
rouses rills of memories
forgotten in the bath -

Today I sit once more
in rust-streaked tub with dragon feet
and windmill taps that sputter, hiss
as Uncle Norman lurks, invades;
his water-serpent slithers
into secret harbours,
drowns my laughter,
slimes my bed-time play.

I take a thousand scalding baths
to purge his venom, scrubbing
till my skin weeps blood,
burns pink as water-melon
inside-out.

Tears plughole, gurgle
as I dry myself:
half-clean, half-dirty.

***

Stilettoed, varnished, dyed,
my playmate's mother
ashtrays morning, lounges,
watches

us kaleidoscope
our dolls'-house play.
We're dentists gassing patients,
filling holes.

Elevenses: she feeds us
bourbons, ice-cold milk.
I won't address her
Auntie.

She observes us
jumping, hide-and-seeking;
urges me to stay,
wash hands for lunch.

My guts recoil:
a red-clawed buzzard swoops
to scrape-and-polish, drill
my inwards.

Arm around my neck,
she coaxes. Yesterday -
a blur... I don't know why
I bolt.

Decades later I remember
chequered bathroom floor,
legs splayed, red nails
scratching.

***

Dyed, stilettoed, smoking
chains of kindness, Cousin Mary
welcomes us with strawberries
and cream.

Extended family -
my middle name is hers,
just younger than her second child,
miscarried.

Summer evening we linger,
swim her pool of water,
lemonade with laughter.
Insects bite me -

sun-blotched, itchy, stung,
examined by my mother,
sent to Cousin Mary
to be treated.

Speckled bathroom lino. Tube
of uncapped pink. She creams
my prickled skin. Fingers poke
inside me.

Aged six I vow
I'll never dye my hair
or wear high-heels
or smoke.

***

Round the bowl and round
I scoop out Farex®:
outer circle; down; across;
a criss-cross kiss -
breakfast spoon-strokes
carve a chariot wheel
I swallow.

Spoondrift.
I remember, must not tell:
a stranger at a party
crowds around me, laughing,
spins me dizzy...

Moon inside me,
spokes between my legs.
Unsix.

***

Mr McDollar:

colleague keeping Dad
at work all week
till Friday nights -
too tense, too tired, too cross
for bedtime stories, chess;
our weekend cuddles checked.

He visits once
for business-pleasure dinner,
brings enormous roses.
His pungent laugh
pervades our house;
he drinks Dad's finest malt.

Crisp dollar notes for kids.
He kneels beside my bed:
cigar-breath kiss
and fingers
squeezing
budding breasts -

I sleep a dollar cheaper.

***

Another Presence watches, waits:

too late to rescue me,
reverse the locust years;
too pure, it seems, to touch
my fucked-up soul.

The shadow of the cross, His death
for mine. I will not taste His blood
nor offer blanket amnesty
to hangmen.

His heart forgives. Mine smoulders.
I coil inside my armour:
no-one will invade
my loneliness.

He breathes His love around me,
wakens me by name.
I weep. I scream.
I take His hand, begin

my journeying...