Lying between the
ticket stubs from the
Glasgow trip and Mam’s
death certificate,
I fall between the leaves
of six years. Rent dead centre,
from the church door down
through Aunty Pat’s head.
Spoilt her hat.
Harry’s brother, caught forever
dragging on that fag. Dead.
‘Where’d dada, then?’
said young Sam, when he
stirred the leaves and
exposed me to the light,
holding one half of the marriage.
‘Buggered off to Durham’,
she said from the kitchen.
I’d have him back.
He didn’t hurt me.