The men I keep under my bed
"as if no generation can kill the ghosts of the last
as if we're all buried with them
and their dirt is trapped between our teeth
forming the sleep in our eyes"
Read an extract from the book
we sign in a wrinkled suit
he leans in over our desk
“what are two pretty girls like you
doing in a place like this”
I want to say
we are sitting, what does it look like
and you sir, do you do much beyond leer
do you want to hear our delicate intricacies
I know you, in a way that you will never know me
because you are staring at my hair, my breasts, my eyes
you don’t see my leg shake as you ask some other question
you’ve not heard my voice when it’s pitched quiet, low, its actual sound
not this complex girlish noise that comes out over telephones
and for you, it stands to attention around men like you
Niamh is better at these situations
she fixes-him-up with the kind of sugar
passed down to her by other women
like a recipe for Granny’s gingerbread
or the secret to fashioning the perfect tart
the one that saw them all through marriage
“aren’t you an old charmer
if I was twenty years older”
that is, she says no
but keeps it harmless
she offers him the desire he wants
without the humiliation he deserves
I bite my lip
without the guts to do either
he has the stooped shoulders of my grandfather
old eyes, you can read twinkles into them or sad stories
because of this, I stay silent
like I do with grandad
who walks circles through his bungalow
sometimes he hears her in the bedroom
John, I’m listening, John, I’m watching, John, I’ll always love you
gone three years
how those years have changed him
stooped over ancient mythology
drinking almond milk
he says she sends messages
through a flickering lightbulb
some days, he times the darkness
sends my father updates on its frequency
then my father phones me
as if no generation can kill the ghosts of the last
as if we’re all buried with them
and their dirt is trapped between our teeth
forming the sleep in our eyes
​
Originally published in Flare