Wean

Wid ye jist look at this!

Jemimah McPherson is minding me

while Ammi is away asking Doctor Gordon

Kerr for a brother for me. She boils a kettle for tea

with extra sugar and milk so we can see who slurps

louder, then she takes a bit of spit to my jammy face,

slams our front door to make a big bang, holds my hand

and runs me fast all the way down Abbotsford Place

to Cavendish Street where her Jimmy lives.

They put me for safety in the kitchen sink

next to the window. The sun is shining so bright

in my face it makes me blink and squint

and squirm around so the light is pouring

over my shoulder instead, right through

Mimah and Jimmy with the confetti of dust

floating around them and the haloes

growing above their heads.

Her pink mouth makes nice shapes and she

looks like an angel to me.

They are laughing and happy. I am too,

because they are looking at me.

Wid ye look at this! Wid ye jist look at this!

Look at the wean wi’ a fag in her gob!

My cheeks awobble, spluttering,

Mimah holding me so I don’t bang ma heid

on the tap. Smoke in the sunlight, smoke in my eyes,

all of us laughing till we are greetin’,

and I am squealing, Mimah, Mimah! More!