When vile truth
shatters complacency, when his pupils
shrink to obsidian pins, he will refuse
to meet your eyes.
He will mutter:
It was only once or twice, just
for fun, just to try it out, just to find out, just
to know what it was like. You’re
too old to understand but I
can handle it. It’s not
The years and the lies trundle by,
punctuated by multiplying shades of dread
until all that appears on each succeeding page
is smudged punctuation in black, brown
and blood red.
At night, drear bundles
slump in damp sleeping bags.
Bent heads sink. Limbs sag. Limp lips
beg change to spend on the devil’s silence.
As I pass the darkened bank, a man says:
Excuse me lady, have you got any…
I swivel my head, and see
my son’s face.
Outside Tesco Express
a second voice invades my space
and though I know he’s miles away,
again, I see his face.
To keep tears at bay
I formulate rhymes whose meter
matches my pace.
I despise my weakness
and hate the unbidden ache
that hides in my skin.
I need my bed,
but I fear the demon in my pillow
which won’t let me forget.
In sleep, my mind
plays playground games,
raging and grieving in turns.
For once I dream my son uncurls.
Washed clean of the streets,
he stands tall, his flesh
My joy negates all of the pain.
Yet when I wake
I know that nothing has changed;
the blood in his punctured veins
still stains my soul.
©Jane Paterson Basil