Unbegun Poem by Irene Cunningham

1

I hovered in doorways
behind her chair – always at my back
a father, a brother.

Later, she shoved leftovers around
the frying pan with a wooden spatula
supper-time already,
The London Palladium da-de-da’ed
across the screen.

I carried dishes to the kitchen
and caught her
in the door-walled lobby, whispered
at her face – she reeled
Oh hen, I’ve nothin’ fur ye
but there’s an auld white sheet
in the wardrobe.

11

Liz pulled his face out
of her purse like an extra condom.
We danced, arms waving
I want him, introduce him to me.

Then he was there
in the pub next door
eyes that bubbled and popped
a Patrick Mower look-a-like
before look-a-likes were the thing.
Glimpses of hair
through shirt buttons
Christmas Old Spice,
the definite nod in his eyes –
he was mine.

He declared me his
enforced
with love-kissed punches
and shadowing.
A strong lover who wept
the streets of Manchester at midnight
I love you to death.

I dressed for winter in summer
made excuses for hibernation
splashed red on a white car
then said, I do.

111

I remember a drawing in a school book
a woman lying beneath a tree
belly up.
Above her another woman heaved
on a branch, up and down
her bare feet part of the labour –
that’s what my mother did to me.

She jumped
from a great height
arms full of doctors and advisors,
cold noses and steel fingers and
It’s for the best needles, prized
the child out of me.

1V

…salt, pepper and spice
…and little fancy jars of
house-smelling herbs –
this man caught me in drink
sticky thighs the only evidence
of meeting
except for his face by mine
beneath the same quilt in a sun shaft.

Now
I can’t keep my hands off his scaffolding
…and dried onions in case I forget fresh
Keep the cupboard full of stock cubes
and you’ll never starve
…and porridge.
He doesn’t like potatoes
…jars of Piccalilli and jam
…and sink-tidy
yellow to match curtains and tiles.

I get to do all this by myself
and keep the change.

He wants to be a daddy
makes me scream for more.

Over a common-law threshold
If you ever spend my money
I’ll empty the cupboard, even of salt
and spend the week with my mother.

V

Sixty quid for the bronze and rust
that rattles and rolls but
jump-starts first time.
Vauxhall Victor with a bash at the back
goodbyes me and mine,
numbered black bags settle against walls
in my old bedroom.
My mother has seen all this before –
I’ve never really belonged to Glasgow.

Victor is a tin beef-olive
tied at the top
video and furniture into gold,
food for us and the car.
Newcastle, a hole on the horizon
we smooth down the motorway, rolling
the children to sleep
South and East
into February the 2nd
with a faulty something
that kept us in Glasgow till five.

(writing as Maggie York, published in London Review of Books 1991)