One Shirley Temple and Five Pints of Stella

Butterflies on scrap bits of paper
wrinkled and damp

drawing and praying
that’s all I do, praying to be snapped in
two so there’s another one of me in
the noise and the damp and I could colour
with me, together

Dad’s voice booms over my head
his molars like microphones pushing him
into ears and he jokes about his heart,
one attack away from death

I search the room for patterns and
colours of shark fins or spring
or the icy hues of starlight or the bold
tones of Japanese fruit with names
like ha-choo, but there’s nothing here
just grey-green drool that drips
from chapped lips and explodes
onto last night’s broken glass

our little lives like hop scotch
one day it’s crazy, the next
day it’s not

dad marching downstairs dragging
his shadow over my brother
against the wall, my mum –
a piggy in the middle
slapped away and later she’ll
give him a kick too, more quiet
like she really means it

my dad, brother and some others
shout and leave and I can’t stand
another night alone with her so I
follow them down the street

in town I glide behind,
leaping over Piccadilly puddles
where the world is the same
just upside down, could the other me
be down there?

Their voices echo and enter beneath
a bright green sign that flickers real fast
like wings, I can’t read and I can’t go in –
a big black man stands on guard

crouching behind a bin
I peer through
two velvet
curtains

knees, belly, lace, red, shimmer, lips

a girl dancing in shapes
the way fumes do.

Back home I parade through my room
twisting “Wednesday” knickers into a string
between my bum, my breasts
- more like fried eggs
but I pinch them tight
one day they’ll be balloons
and I’ll be part
of all that
beauty

as I fall asleep
a gold glitter, unfolds itself
beneath my lid