by Kate Mounce
Dream of sweated air, Third World intimation,
where there’s seasoning fruit yet in trading skin.
Being white, I’m told, my touch means millions
and all smiles from young skirts, thigh high,
are received and returned with a wink.
Gathering pimps bow, chattering gratitude for pittance
‘My girls, thank you, please, please..’
I keep a son not yet five,
Pooh-bear blind and stubborn to bed.
His will be a private education,
producing a nose for fine substances;
every bruise a victory,
a contemporary Croix-de-Guerre.
For all her potions, his mother will gain more loose skin and years;
will send her love, our hopes, on headed notepaper to his dorm.
Whilst she sleeps,
I handshake out of a vision of dusky petite workers
eyes planting the ground.