CAPACITY

Mid-stride, a stranger caught our doe eyes;

his nicotined fingers caged our kitty,

the bell ringing with danger as he was gorged

by the cornerstore’s greedy mouth.

 

The shopkeeper’s face had flicked towards our

knot of childish conspiracy

outside his stickered window;

‘concern’ was not exchanged in their counter conversation.

 

Our mule relinquished the consignment

of brown bottles and silver cans into a basket of thin arms,

glowing fag already tipping from his slack lips,

anonymising us behind the smoke,

 

untroubled that we were about to

adulterate our livers,

become unconscious

 

on the grass

behind the toilets

at the park

in the dark,

 

that, loose-boned,

we would be hauled to

floppy feet by older boys,

 

dragged like puppets,

trainers scuffing pavements

as though trying out new school erasers.

 

Our arms flowered

purple and black, their handclamps

shackling jelly as they

strived to make diagonal vertical.

 

They surrendered us to a square of light,

backs sliding down chip shop haze

on release,

saggy Guy Fawkes girls, wadded

with wet straw,

limbs wool,

veins hissing with snakebite.

 

Raina brought water,

paper cups for gripless lips,

dead slugs sprawled in our mouths,

teeth too numb for speech.

 

We had tasted

the bitter darkness of adulthood;

the children outside the shop

were gone,

and how close we were

to becoming lost, too.