Whirring is the heart mind of an eight year old
who has lost his favorite toy,
and whose drunken father has fallen into the marsh again.
Mother is far worse off after a big haul.
He sings a song in his head about the anger,
like a fat red muscle above the eye
where all hate and bile lie. And because all the anger
he has known has come from this family boon,
he claps his ears shut and thrusts
against the air, as if he could swing away
the feeling, swing away
into a clapping blue sky. There is a freeze
coming on, this he knows from the tightening of the tin roofs,
a sound like that of a tooth against the grime,
a freeze which will bring all
closer in towards the fire. What will he do if they rear up
in a brawl? Hide in his wool blankets,
roll up in the straw, avoid the steel moon.
When he returns home, it is after a meal plucked on his own,
clams, and bread from Ally's pinched.
He dares not dare the whole of the house,
and slides in unawares. His lost toy is an ache
in the head. Is a sharp pain behind the eyes,
pinching up in his veins.
