I remember at six
salivating for the
thin layer of flesh
lining the shell like a silky membrane.
The green coconut cleaved in two,
Dad’s cane knife dead in the grass.
I remember at eight
swinging on a tyre
at an evening barbecue,
letting the darkness hide
the shame of sucking so deeply
the bone and flesh of another animal.
I remember at 10
licking in secret
each steel lock latched on
affordable holiday Bures
lined up in rows;
a hankering for iron in my blood.
I remember at 25
lying in bed listening
to heavy rain squeezing
through plaster and paint,
the release of sweet contentment after making love, then
then pure terror:
salivating licking sucking squeezing all at once;
my power lying still by my side.
The truth about a family friend,
buried deep in my 16-year-old soul –
this empty feeling of being
at childhood’s end.
At 54, I remember it all, every detail, and I don’t want to
but
the memories – they
arrive as they please
like waves of nausea.
*The title is taken from the first line of Carol Ann Duffy’s poem, ‘Little Red Cap’, 1999