The Hosepipe
I needed petrol – 5 litres to get me there and the rest for the process. A small price to pay, running on empty, the urine already cold on my winter jeans, stinking on my frozen legs, a dreadful trembling fear. the hard stench of black tobacco fills my nostrils, my last few cigarettes, another
The Planets
the schoolyard’s a cheap bar at closing time, and he’s the last burning match in the ashtray, like the sun with a five o’clock shadow, standing there in scuffed boots and yesterday’s shirt, smoking those little rollups. the planets roll in — tired eyes, soft hips — pushing prams with snot-nosed little moons strapped inside,
The Fairy
she blew in after the lunch bells had faded. Sunday, round two in the afternoon. Beautiful in a pale whirl, dancing and floating between aisles in the vortex air of the slow train rumbling toward London. suspended there, afloat in the rattle and sway of the rails. she drifted into the baggage jungle, over the
Old Spice
they were the only men who stayed. my fathers, the two who weren’t. Uncle Patrick — dark hair, long sideburns, a day’s stubble and a gentleness that surprised you. peppermint and tobacco, and the Mainstay snort underneath it. he drank too much and loved me tenderly, and I never felt the drink in how he
Swallows
sitting in a bar on Rue Lepic with a glass of cheap pastis. the water hits the liquor and turns it cloudy; a yellow, curdled swirl. it tastes heavy—fennel, aniseed, a bitter medicine that catches the back of the throat. it hits the same way an old road hits your boots when you’ve tramped it