Pen Pal by Ian Horner

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Hymns being sung in churches
While christened babies wail,
Blue rhapsodies at full blast in the bookshops

The stale water sleeping on the counter
purple flowers racing the dungeon of pine
a bowl of stale almonds suffocating my brain
the empty soap bottle tearing my muscles

but the china cabinet with pens and paper
the soul shaper...

My mother taught me how to braid

my hair.

She showed me how to part,
how the three plaits showed my ordinarily hidden
hazel strands so well.
I changed with her eyes
and grew up
the apotheosis of her drowsy motherhood.

She admired the order of things,
of laundry, of toys, of dishes,
of children in their element.

I hadn’t done her, not this morning. I was gonna do her in the afternoon when I got good and tight. Well what do you mean where I was? I went walking… we went walking back up the county road because Nutsy’s face was all a-shambles, with his jaw out like this, out to here. We didn’t even have the dope.