Your House (after Ch’ang-Kan Village Song – Li Po)

Your House                   (after Ch’ang-Kan Village Song – Li Po)

My mother cut my hair:

A see-saw forehead, and

you laughed saying we

looked like brothers

that day when I was ten and

knocked on your door to visit.

Intrigued by your parent’s blue carpets

and photos of drunken parties

I wanted to stay and play

as long as I could.

I loved the warm lounge

with the daschunds sunbathing,

the silence your parents work brought

leaving us alone together,

stalking the house

trying to catch monsters

and skinny-dipping -

excited but not knowing

why our bodies tingled to touch.

I spent all my time with you

hoping you would say
Shall we swim again?

Then, years later, as we grew up

having entered the world,

you to Dublin,

and I to London,

we caught up in breaks -

typing eating lunches.

And through our online times

I missed you more than a friend should.

I wanted to hold you

tight in the dark night,

but you have your own someone

to swim with now.

Meet me. We’ll talk and remember,

but I’ll go no further than the Welsh ferry port.

My mother

My mother,

silent in thought,

holds a cheap pen in her hand,

gold and silver, clicking her tongue as she begins to write

Still clearly the teacher

she continues to be in her writing,

a callous reminds of the hours with red pens sizing up children.

She stops to cough,

a planned gentle sound

escapes her thin lips, then she begins to me again.

I feel guilt claw,

watching her writing.

Keeping in touch- something I never did when I left her alone

By Niall McDougall

New Year's Eve

New Year’s Eve

Never dreamed about,

never spoken,

never wanting,

a friend dies.

Jo’burg.

Cold.

5a.m.

Past bedtime.

Falling asleep in the car.

The New Year ends.

The pavement is stubborn.

Glass under my skin.

Blurred sister beside.

Red, blue, red, blue.

A soft wail.

Metallic.

Dry in the mouth.

Blood pours down the gutter.

Crying.

A broken wrist.

Someone dies on a trolley.

Do you know where you are?

By Niall McDougall

Thin socks

Thin Socks

Five in the morning – a cold spring day.

My brother purrs his sleep next to me.

Mother yawns around the kitchen making tea,

squashes the bags against the cup rims,

straining the sun out of Celon like a sangoma.

She calls up for us both to get going,

and David mumbles his waking displeasure.

I am upright, half naked, pulling on thin socks:

making holes with my nails.

Fuck and It rise up like balloons,

soft formed and drifting away.

A chain barks from the yard, a whine then a moan:

she hasn’t been taken out for a while.

She hurts as she holds the hours in.

Dave hops around squeezing into his jeans.

Why does she not pee there and then?

Why do I have to walk her all the time?

I can feel the grey morning bleaching my tan

as it prises through the limp curtains.

We’re on the road to nowhere hums itself

as I let the day into the room.

Up above there are Canada Geese

parting the air with their V, waking and stewing today to begin.

One goose calls to me: Leave now, or forever hold your peace.

Blue Skies

Blue skies

You are new,

heading north,

flying your own blue.

Migrating, escaping,

burning fresh freckles

under the sun,

with your pink tongue,

luring the truth

out of the world -

how it moulded your face,

decided your skin,

how it slapped out you name.

You are unfolding,

becoming your shape,

your erotic make.

You begin now.

Put on your eyes,

tell us fresh lies.

Bollocks to the coop.

By NMcD