HE COULD HURT ME

He could break me. Take me up
in his arms and throw me or cut me,
stick a knife in my bowel and gut me,
wear leather boots and parade me
around the showground. He could fire me
from a cannon into the mouths
of a gasping crowd, watch them swallow
me down, sneering and cheering. He could
lick me or whip me or beat me or bite me
and I'd never throw the towel in.
I'd give him that. I'd give him that.

FRIDAY NIGHTS IN A&E

Breaking into violence,
everyone expects themselves to be
x-rayed at the local infirmary.

Mother's stalk the corridors,
afraid their loved ones won't survive,
reading leaflets on birth control and
sexually transmitted diseases. Sobriety
heals most wounds
as children hide bruises from parents
like shadows cast by a tree
lost in snow.