(i)

She hates him making her safe.
Remembers times when she

searched her pockets and the sofa
for fag money and the floating

ten pound note she would give
to him and him to her when they were short.

“Life is boring when there’s no edge to it.” she says.

(ii)

“There should be summat to fight for!
Who needs an easy road,
without people and obstacles,
so there’s nothing
to work around,

nothing to tell tales,
weep, wail and witter,
scrimp, scrape and scratter,
gripe, grieve and grapple about?”

(iii)

He wants the comfy chair,
in front of the TV.
All bills paid, no mortgage,
home fit to live in.
An easy going on.

Only he likes strong, passionate
women. They rearrange him,
upset, rattle and upside down him
with tirades about what
he hasn’t done, what they think
he’s done, what they think he’s about.

(iv)
She’ll do time
for next bloke
doles his fist
at her, on her, in her.

Next one who controls
like her mother.

Him, ligged out sozzled
on her sofa when
there’s chores to be done.

Expects meat and two veg.,
won’t change his habits,
go places, do stuff.

(v)

You’re mandled, mollycoddled.
Need to be chivied and mithered.

Too long seen you topple
your Mam and Dad grab
you up, smartish, to console.

Too much smothered
when deep in debt,
pulled out the mire,
dusted down and placed
on decent path, again.

Not fended and fought,
bended and bought,
mended your own path,
cleared undergrowth,
tramped and stamped
with your own sore feet.

No blisters and sores,
cuts and grazes you’ve picked
washed out ingrained grit,
gravel while grimaced.

(vi)

And he would say if he could:
“Not everyone’s your mother!
Not everyone’s after making
you miscarry that faith in yourself.

Pregnant with youthful confidence,
she had you haul her heavy boned
bloated hatred that you were ever born
from room to room, up
and down steep stairs to inflict
a bloody carcass on your womb.

You did as she asked but ensured
that little bairn gave
you a reason to go on.
A clear eye to nuture.
A warmth to cuddle.
A life to save.”

(vii)

” I’m not going to seed
sat on my arse.
Alzheimer fodder.

Comfort zones are killing zones.
Once, I was hard as nails.

You’re useless.
Used to be someone
to butt up against.
Challenge me.

You’ve made me soft, and I’ve let you.

Never knew how exhausted
I was. Batteries recharged.

I’ll stay with you, for now.

A daily reminder

of what I don’t need.

I need a gun to my head.

A knife at my throat.

I’ll put me back
in the fire.”

She hates him making her safe.
Remembers times when she

searched her pockets and the sofa
for fag money and the floating

ten pound note she would give
to him and him to her when they were short.

“Life is boring when there’s no edge to it.” she says

I am in a coach seat
sat back with my seatbelt on
because it’s the law
on a dual carriageway
following the dots
like a pair of scissors
before the polite notice
“Please cut here.”

Dressed for summer
in sandals and a Silver Surfer T Shirt.
Norrad the Surfer in his silver
underpants on a board
that rides the skyways
he agreed to be a herald
for the planet eater Galactus,
to stop his lover being killed
and his planet eaten by Galactus.

And he came to earth
and said you’re not eating
this one and opposed his boss
he’s exiled to earth,
unable to return
to his planet and his lover.
And it made me sad,
even though he was
dressed in his underpants.

Every story was about him
doing the best for folk
and them not understanding,
saying he was alien
and they didn’t want him.
Like you think folk do to you
when you’re a teenager,
or younger and wish
you had a planet and a lover
to fight for like a hero
in metal underpants.

(i)

Forward Froggy Fretwell promises sloppy snogs behind the prefab at playtime.
.
In our dark den in the wood under
the grey coarse blanket nicked

from Mam’s black spot airing cupboard,
Froggies piggies taste like penny chews,

“This little piggy went to market,
this little piggy had roast beef,

this little piggy had none,
and this little piggy

went wee, wee, wee, wee
all the way home” tickling

all the way up her under her skirt
to her white panties where she’s weed

herself laughing, “Poo”, I say. “Don’t put
your liquorice stick near it. Don’t want

babies.” she says smiling through her braces,
her blue eyes glinting in late summer sun.

(ii)

Nanna’s bunions hobbled
her stance for years.

She chose sandals that allowed
the bulbous growth air.

A regular visit from a pedicurist
kept that pain at bay.

She only used a stick under protest
the last few months before death.

(iii)

Laid on her front,
I have my back to her,
her feet either side
of me over thick green
Egyptian cotton towel,

brushes my back with her Achilles.
I switch on the coarse roller,
gently move it up and down each toe,
hard dead skin falls like snow.

Twenty years a nurse, she stood
ealies and lates in operating theatres.
” You can’t ask
patient to put their finger
in the hole as you’ve reached
end of your shift and ‘ll be
back tomorrow.” she laughs.

She almost nods off,
the massage is an electric
spring after winter.

(iv)

My mam riddled with cancer
put her steroid fat feet
over my step dad’s legs
on the couch
as they watched tv.

He massaged her feet
as if he could remove her pain.

(v)

Dad’s feet are always gross.
Sat at the end of their double bed

a sheet of “Wakefield, Pontefract
and Casteford Express” laid on the bedroom carpet,

toe clippers in hand he slowly cuts each nail,
rarely sprinkles the paper with them,

instead they ping all over,
onto Mam’s court shoes and under

her dressing table, into the hallway,
and weeks later barefoot to the bathroom

my soft soles pierced bloody
by his stray parings.

(vi)
She decides to sleep with him,
when she sees his rolling gait.
His tongue lolls at the roundness
of her ankles as she catwalks.
Over dinner
he inhales the jasmine perfume
of her high arches and curves,
puts his feet between her legs
and gently kneads her wet.
Later, after red wine,
she wraps her two feet around
his penis, her toes tickle his balls.
His feet are muscly and strong.
She says “Your feet are nice and smooth.”
She caresses them softly, teases his toes
with her lips then kisses
between them, sucks them,
into and out of her mouth,
as if each digit a sweet lolly,

ten cousins of the big toe
without nail between his legs.

He follows instep curve
to taste dessert in her kneaded folds.

(vii)

Mam gets out the stinky vinegar
like we’re having fish and chips.

“Stop fidgeting your feet!”, she reprimands
as she uses cotton wool to coat

my verrucaed foot. Like an alien
from Doctor Who, or triffid.

“No you can’t go swimming. You’ll spread disease. Disgusting boy!”

I)

 
She read her first hands.

Small, spatula shaped.

Stumpy fingers.

Not large enough to be manual.

Not thin enough to be artistic.

 
Wanted to be a true reflection

of others, but his surface

held too many imperfections.

His eyes were blank spheres,

his conflict in his palms.

 
He would lie to her.

Keep things to himself.

 
He gave her doubt.

 
(ii)

 
Another’s Long tender digits play timpani

between her legs. Their slender

reach

works a flood within her.

 
As they helter skelter

spirals from tip to base

 
on each of her breasts

she loses control when

 
they are half way down

the slide and she flies.

 
His tongue: a ninth finger,

touch types her labia

 
so she breathes glossolalia

with her ninth finger.

 
He made her feel good

 
(iii)

 
Another: more fish than man.

His skin has scales

 
between his fingers,

at their base

a thin film to make

any swim easier.

 
His imagination is a fish bladder.

He swerves over her coral.

 
She saw another way to live.

 
(iv)

 
She examines her hands in awe,

as if newly discovered.

 
Amazed they belong to her,

and that she controls them.

 
Curls each finger, notes

how each joint works.

 
Finger of one hand follows

the lines of the other

 
as if to remap, retraverse

the landscapes of age.

 
She let her know what was to come.

 
(v)

In the purple blossom

of her bruises

 
she traces the shape

of his knuckles.

 
Cries at the glad fall

into the gentle browns

 
of his eyes, strength

of his black hair.

 
She learns how to leave,

how to say “no”.

 
(vi)

 
His wife has chocolate fingers,

dark and sweet,

 
inhale bubblegum

from the tips,

 
pink wafer nails,

taste of red fruit wine.

A taste that doesn’t cloy,

not syrupy or over sugared.

This woman knows how to work her fingers

 
(vii)

 
Daddy God finger, abuse finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am, let me do you, let me do you.

 
Mummy Mary finger, let him finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am. Let him do you. Let him do you.

 
Brother finger, Cain finger, where are you?

Here I am, Here I am, ready to kill, ready to kill.

 
Sister finger, Mercy finger, where are you?.

Here I am, Here I am, Pray to you, pray to you.

 
Baby finger, Jesus finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am. Killed for you, killed for you.

 
Graspy thumb, toolly thumb, where are you?

Here I am. Here I am. Work for you, work for you.

 
(viii)

 
Tiny lamb’s hooves gain purchase

in the grooves of gust worn cracks

 
beneath a looming ancient stone crag.

Little fingers like young stones caught ,

 
in the raked valleys of a Zen garden,

a tiny baby grasps Dad’s finger base ,

 
cranes eyes to the precipice edge ,

the furrowed horizon of skin.

 
(ix)

 
Her hand is a military formation.

Four sharp spears stand upright,

or stab forward,

or curl with the thumb

into a bony shield,

of knuckles.

 
Too much like his.

 
(x)

 
His loam palms,

carrot fingers,

parsnip thumbs,

bring harvest

over our threshold.

Sustenance.

 
(xi)

 
His butter fingers

massage themselves

 
into her body

until he is no more

 
and she glows

with oil of him.

He makes her shine.

 
(xii)

 
“Best left till late in life.”

He says “So many nerve

 
endings when you get it done.

And near the knuckle

 
for other folk as you can’t

really keep them hid.”

 
Wide awake turquoise eyes

of his late wife, one

 
per hand follow me

round the room.

 
“She was always one

for eyeing up other blokes.”

he says.

 
(xiii)

 
Twenty canvasses of your own.

Each nail is a canvas.

 
Even two year olds daub

them with a tiny brush.

 
On every high street two or three

businesses compete cuticles.

 
No airheads chewing gum,

buffing nails and passing calls.

 
Operating theatre masks,

nail drying machines by their side.

 
French or gel.

Indulged luxury in austerity.

 
At home sisters bond and learn

techniques of togetherness.

 
If you do mine, I’ll do yours.

Choose colour or tattoo.

 
Delicacy of touch and focus.

Mindfulness colouring book.

 
Pampered by laughter

and forgetting.

 
(xiv)

 
Nanna has no time for nails.

Forever pegs out on washing,

 
Her hands turn, twist,

push and pull, grind and grist,

 
make meals, scrub thresholds.

poss dirt, brush soot, polish tiles,

 
learn to live with bruises, blebs,

blisters, blemishes, bleeds,

 
mangle water, wring an easier

going on until convenience saves time.

 

 

 

(xv)

 
Grandad’s hands are made

of coal dust, and steel shavings.

 
Layers of ancient trees, molten

pig runs through his veins.

 
Lathe turned, tool maker palms

cradle call centre headset

 
in environmentally controlled

warehouse where he negotiates

 
customer complaints while

his hands grow soft his brain
works out, solution led,

business aligned conundrums.

(xvi)
Learn to read your own hands.

Family history in fingerprint ridges.

 
Smell yesterdays meals, how

seasons of heat and cold ingrain

 
in lines like longitude and latitude.

Like rocks weathered by smoke,

 
yellowed by tobacco stains, reddened

by beetroot, oranged by carrots

 
Blue black pen stain from school.

Scars of damage with stories attached.
You must use your eyes to see

your hands tell more than your eyes.

(v)

In the purple blossom

of her bruises

she traces the shape

of his knuckles.

Cries at the glad fall

into the gentle browns

of his eyes, strength

of his black hair.

She learns how to leave,

how to say “no”.

(vi)

His wife has chocolate fingers,

dark and sweet,

inhale bubblegum

from the tips,

pink wafer nails,

taste of red fruit wine.

A taste that doesn’t cloy,

not syrupy or over sugared.

This woman knows how to work her fingers

(vii)

Daddy God finger, abuse finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am, let me do you, let me do you.

Mummy Mary finger, let him finger, where are you? Here I am, here I am. Let him do you. Let him do you.

Brother finger, Cain finger, where are you?

Here I am, Here I am, ready to kill, ready to kill.

Sister finger, Mercy finger, where are you?. Here I am, Here I am, Pray to you, pray to you.

Baby finger, Jesus finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am. Killed for you, killed for you.

(viii)

Tiny lamb’s hooves gain purchase

in the grooves of gust worn cracks

beneath a looming ancient stone crag.

Little fingers like young stones caught ,

in the raked valleys of a Zen garden,

a tiny baby grasps Dad’s finger base ,

cranes eyes to the precipice edge ,

the furrowed horizon of skin.

(i)

she pulls at the loose thread,
dries the pots on the draining board

hoovers the stray seed under the cage,
wipes the dusty blinds then raises them.

“I’m happy,” she tells him.

(ii)

She sharpens her cheekbones,
creates light
highlights
diagonal from side of her nose
up to outer corner of her eye.
Light shade of concealer along the upper edges.
Matte bronzing powder under the bones
increases their height
for him.
“What do you think?”
she asks.

(iii)

She takes a hair out of his eye,
brushes dandruff from his collar,

loosens his tie, undoes top button
and second button of his shirt,

tidies the creases in his jacket,
pats dust off his shoulders,

and says “You look dapper, now”,
as her fingers tuck her hair behind
her perfumed ear.

(iv)

She can still sense musk
she put on her neck earlier.

“I’ve got something in my eye.
Can you see it? You’ll have to
move closer.”

Her lace bra strap somehow comes loose.

“This shoe’s killing me. Foots hard and I’ve been too long in the saddle. Not invading your space, love. But can I use your shoulder while I straighten it out. ”

(v)

blackbird jams to himself on the non smoking chimney pot,

bright day emerges dazed,
officers still haven’t found her body,

bluebells appear for the first time
along the railway embankment.

in the display window the bread is burnt,
she lets him touch her breast,
his hand stays there.

(vi)

The rains do not stop.
A ladder in her stockings

has rungs that multiply
when she crosses her legs.

His vape is losing flavour.
The little girl laughs as she leaps

the lines in the pavement.
He has used 80% of power
on his mobile.

An ant traverses breaks
in the concrete. The questioner
ogles the line of the waitresses legs
not hers
“Stop looking at her legs. You pervert.”

(vii)

She crosses her legs
towards him:
the river in spate,
astroturf on the graves
needs a short back and sides.

She crosses her legs
away from him:
dust piles in forgotten corners,
babies lose their comfort blankets,
petals fall from the table vase.

(viii)

She separates items on her plate. Peas
from carrots, meat

from mash. Hot
from cold.
“How young we were when you asked me.”

She folds her paper napkin into a crane
that nods.
She fold his into a T shirt.
“You’ve got to look in the right place.”

(ix)

The waitress in a tiny black dress
has brought their food.
His hands are so soft and gentle as he picks up the cold knife and fork,
she can only imagine the worst of it.

And decades ago:
A little girl in a gingham dress
rushes after a Yorkshire Terrier
who’s strayed on the railway line.
A little boy reaches over the shining
pool full of his grandad’s new
golden koi carp.

There were screams then, too.

“This mash is nice.” she says.

(x)

Her wetwipe removes the gravy stain on his trousers,
“You’d never make a good criminal.” she says.

At the other meal stains and crumbs are intentional.

Temptation is the first course.
Lure the innocent full spoon
with a promise or an adventure
into the quiver of a mouth .

The Act the main.
Unexpected threat.
Taste the screams.

Savour the dessert.
Admire the sweet iced silence
and/or the blood.

Coroners always so kind:”Death by Misadventure”

“Can’t take you anywhere. You’re worse
than a kid.” she says.

xi)

Her late son and daughter’s tender portraits
in the rare bloody meat on his plate,
arranged as when a child makes faces with its food.

His knife and fork separate threads
of their sinew and bone:

One bloated as if drowned.
The other in pieces as if smashed
by a speeding train.

Life defined by what is missing.

And then she sees
her own face there.

“Don’t play with your food. Eat it properly.” she scolds.

He makes her face in the meat smile

(xii)

She tuts when he slaps his chops
and pulls at the strands of young life

caught between his incisors
and molars with his silvered tongue,

slurps bright cold beer from his pint glass,
mashes peas into mash, carrots

into Yorkshire pudding, oblivious
to what goes where and with what.

“All meets up in the same place, love”
she comments and laughs

and sees their graves
all in a row like teeth.

(xiii)

He always sups 11 pints of beer,
then stops. Has to reach

a certain level to be happy.
Their car is left at the pub.

She makes sure he gets home safely.
When they can’t afford a taxi,

she oversees his wander:
into the road of fast cars,

other people’s gardens to piss,
pokes him with her finger

to rouse his slumber,
and yanks a bush over himself
as if it were a bed blanket.

“Go onto half’s,” she recommends.
So he buys two halves, instead of a pint.

(xiv)

She smirks as he wipes his sloppy mouth with her origami napkin t shirt,
leaves a brown stain on the shirt sleeves,
slurps his ninth pint.

Watches him leer at the catwalking long legged, black stockinged
waitress in her tiny black dress as she carries his hot apple pie

and custard, and places before him
with a seductive, pouted “Enjoy.” to his face,

and her cold fresh fruit salad.
She unfolds her origami napkin crane,

lays it on her lap, pauses an orange segment before her dry mouth:

“We’re walking home tonight.”, she announces.

(xvi)

Sips her black filter coffee as he downs
his last two pints and winks

at the waitress.
Outside it is a slight cold evening

he stumbles into the road
and raucous horns of drivers.

He dilly dallies, messes with his trousers.
She sees an Artic. gear toward him.

Rushes to…and is held back by the tiny cold hands of a little girl in a gingham

dress and a little boy.
“I can’t. My kids.” she shouts.

He screams. She watches the lorry kill him,
and the kids hands leave her.

Her dead kids disappear
into the sweet iced silence.

(xvi)

She stands in front of his tooth
of a gravestone. Cuts back the weeds,

scrubs the cheap Yorkshire stone.
She only puts roses on her little boy

and girl’s graves as a thankyou.
“I’m happy.” she tells them.