ii

all that air, coming out at once,

could be sweet-hot desert breath,

but no it is the taste of your backyard –

and the broken arm that shingled

wide in the hard concrete, slid right across

to the mud. the cuts on your knee matching

those other reds, calls of old trafford,

my father’s team and something of a rival, for you. 

such a morning you ever did see.

remember the shape of my hand

                in yours?

the white lines were burning that day

and i caught sight of you watching me,

ever the abject conversationalist… 

the field stretched out and your eyes were little

black specs pitching against the clouds, the dirt,

the open window you couldn’t pay back.

the grass had scorched that summer,

when i busted your kitchen door open;

that lock never worked the same again,

one swift thwack against your shin and the torn

edges of your frame crumpled like foil. 

one mallet in exchange for another. 

you won the remontada pal, your mother only said,

    ‘‘¿quién es?’’  last time i saw her. i couldn’t

recognise the curl of your lip north -

not like i had.

devotion can only go so far.

these days i hold my breath

as i pass ipswich town and count

as my lungs fill out the horizon.