Visits. Sharon Gerber-Crawford

      The family garden in the 1970’s

      Hair

      Still there, still fair

      pretty as the picture

      I am looking out of

      with my brother, and

      a row of dolls, lined up

      legs kicking the technicolour air

      of the bright 60’s sunshine.

      The family garden

      still made of grass

      stretching away behind us into the blue

      Sperrin Mountains.

      Idyllic you may think

      but we are already old and worried,

      discontent

      posing for pictures

      on a Sunday afternoon

      The Protestant family album

      Oh! How cute! Is that your brother?

      Did he really have such white hair?

      And weren’t you pretty, then!

      Then.

      And then we turned to play

      upset the dolls

      fists and legs flying in the air

      For Gawd’s sake! Can’t a body

      have a bit o’ peace around here!

      Peace?

      No!

      Like the hair

      It’s not there

Memory Tricks

      Long legs hold me

      I cannot breathe

      sacks of flour in a dusty storeroom

      we are hiding, but how?

      Surely we are being missed

      the dentist’s drill whines on children’s bones

      the milk cart starts up

      and out in the fields the smell of slurry

      spreads, like the new healthy margarine

      Tomorrow a magician will come

      To trick coins out of children’s ears

      From between their fingers

      he will reward them with chocolate money

      and orange lollipops

      but you will get none

      you will not be picked

      again

      amen

      pull the cold leeches from the toilet walls

      pick at your skin

      don’t let them in

Exposure

      Cold air

      On cracked bone

      The dentist drilling

      „Open wide

      Relax!“

      Eyes squeezed shut

      Spinning

      Through the dust and debris

      Of things past

      A Northern Ireland sixties classroom

      Palm outstretched

      For the willow cane

      For a pencil stuck

      In a best friend’s head

      For forbidden words

      „Fuck you! You’re dead!“

      Forbidden words

      But worser still

      The words left

      Unsaid

      Playing tig

      In the schoolyard

      Quickly caught, squashed

      No room to breathe

      „When a man marries a woman

      He asks her if she wants

      To make a baby.

      She says yes, and then

      He sticks his thing up her

      Fanny“

      No! No! No!

      This is worse than custard

      Force-fed in the school canteen

      I run

The Journey Home

      was ne’er much fun

      A yellow bus, Mr Magowan

      hacking and spitting us

      all on board

      for a twisty jaunt o’er

      Gillygooley and Drumquin hills

      I sit alone, mostly

      Or with my brother

      Counting rain drops on cloudy window panes

      the others laughing, yelling, teasing

      doing deals

      and us? Small, so very small

      waiting

      in a vacuum of noise

      every Protestant hedge

      every Catholic tree

      bringing us closer

      and closer

      end stretch

      the yellow bus stops

      C’mon get up, get out first

      and maybe, just maybe....

      But the seats have feet to trip us up

      arms to hold us back

      twisting and turning down the steps

      schoolbags caught up in some

      big thorn bush smelling blood

      tearing for skin, demanding sacrifice

      and the others? - laughing, yelling, pushing

      my brother piggy in the middle bouncing ball

      daring me to rescue

      Still. I stand still. Where is the courage?

      Blue. True Blue.

      I hold on to the straps of my schoolbag.

      And I run

      And I run

      And I run

The Playground