When you leaned into my hand that time, always so brusque,
I felt the bulk of that squat demon who still,
four years and three months on,
exerts his demands so you are thin and wide-eyed
while he grows round, rotund. The world's child.
What's it for/about/like? Who decides?
The fear, but more than that the dumb triumph of that blot,
I was listening to Gouge Away floating up from the Marquee
on the side of a road above the city, waiting just in case while you both tried to sleep
for the first time in your own home
on the advice of some therapists and against the advice of others,
wishing the girl screaming into her phone on the street opposite would fuck off
when she did - all hips - and I waited between ninety and ten thousand minutes,
wondering how much I could piss into a sanitary towel so as not to disturb you
who yesterday got out the scrapbooks, one for every year, of pictures
captioned by teachers: "I like to take turns at the sandpit." "I am a lovely little boy."
Sunday in the Secure Unit
Seth wanting to know what the dinner is called.
Cain (who has been in care longer) laughing.
Seth throwing soft tomatoes out the window.
Seth wrestling glass from a care worker's hand.
Cain off his face on Tangle Twisters.
Cain on the gear, urinating everywhere.
Seth going to Perks for access with his siblings.
Cain taking the screws out of the table tennis table.
Seth appearing with the leg of a chair.
Cain pinning Seth to the wall.