Cupboard Love

She called it cupboard love, in 1983, you and me, black and white TV, Sarsaparilla tablets, snooker’s hard to see but I didn’t mind, thankful for your company.

I called you from the phone box, ran fast up my street, you pretended you were passing, I felt safe in this deceit, I heard the squeak sound from your pushbike, in my forced childhood hide and seek I could count on you to find me, although I found it hard to speak.

You were the water blessed for the mass

Fluorescent sand in my egg timers glass

You’re were the pause pressed in moments of horror The safe moment of sunrise You’re were Scouts honour

She called it cupboard love, she couldn’t understand, relationships of trust, Didn’t want to hold your hand, didn’t want to touch, I knew you weren’

t like them.

You were the hope I held near my throat

the fake fur lining on my second hand coat You were gate at the top of my stairs The spring in my instep You cared

She called it cupboard love – she kicked the cupboard in She called in cupboard love – but she held me down for him She called it cupboard love – she lived inside a shoe Only two children but she didn’t know what to do.

 

 

Drying Up

Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen door, Colours almost washed out, representations of scenic holiday hot spots faded like those vivid dreams.

Remembering vibrant times

My brother playfully twisting that material All round back on itself, ready to whip My pale naked legs, he didn’t really Want me to hurt

Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen door, It’s story almost told, Some stains never quite washed clean, Each stain a crucial part of it’s fabric.

Remembering darker times,

My Grandmother holding it under a scolding tap Her hands raw red Her being proud of not feeling the pain And she would twist it too Wring it out, in her way She was keeping her household tidy.

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