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I am a woman
He came home
drunk
as usual.

He came home
drunk
and as usual
smelt
of perfume
and brandy.

It was not meant
to be like this
but it was this.

In the silver shafts
of the moon
in the passage of our
little house I found him
leaning on the wall
shoes in hand…
and my son his air
smelt of sleep
already asleep
in the other room.

I am a son
He came home
drunk. I wished
he would leave but
I heard the engine cut;
the tinkle of keys
on the doorstep.

She found him
stumbling,
morose,
mumbling.

Fear I fumbling
with darkness; its monsters
cold and airless
into the long silvery
passage entered I brave
but tearful.

Their embrace
did not fool me;
true it was silent
but her screams and his grunts
caught in the short
breaths I couldn’t get out.

I ran past both
dark as night itself
into the moonlit kitchen
where her oven gloves
still smelt of meat and sticky
apple pudding.

I am a woman
I found him
as women do
with the softness
of my hands
teetering on the sharp edge of knowing.

And, then with scissors
that appeared from nowhere
I cut his shirts to pieces
in the moonlight
as he struggled with me.

There seemed no words
for the heat
or the heaving of chest,
the rage at the filth
he was, the filth
of her perfume as he moved around.

When he held
me I saw the stars
my feet touched
not the earth
on his hand around my throat
my head shoved hard
and clear against the white wall
in the silvery light of the moon.

I am a son
It seemed forever
to watch them like that so unequal
my tears were hot
– I knew she could not win –
and I hated with everything
her weakness
and more, much more, his strength.

And hugging their legs
as if I were pulled
by a thick breathless
darkness
I tried to pull him away-
but could not; a son is not yet a man’s

hard and filthy hand

so I ran back
and in the kitchen;
drawers lined with flowers
and ribbon I drew a knife
larger it seemed than I
but large enough.

I am a woman
I found my strength
when my feet touched
ground
his distraction
my momentary
advantage –
“a woman must be quick”.

But here was this thing
I could not comprehend
my son, still semi-strangled
in his bajamas
both hands planted
by magical connection
to the stub of metal in his crumpling leg.

I wrenched him away
wiped the blood
onto the night
it clattered on the rockery.
Then I tried to mend my son’s dreams.

I am a son
After that he fled,
it was not sweet
I had not won; as a ball upon the water
is weightless
without direction, he swatted me aside.

She mopped up
stroked my hair
and cuddled my boy’s body
shivering.

I felt her go to him
I heard, calling, falling asleep,
their soft voices fade
between the shafts of silvery light
that seemed far between us:
dark rain and swells on a cold sea.

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