I think of her poster: butterfly-like
patches in pastel colours, the heads
of The Cure emerging from black.
Her nimbleness rising in my fingers,
twenty-one years later for no reason
other than I caught today
some similar smell, of cold dust
on grass matting, of her
bare shoulders freshly showered,
of the underside of a new clean pillow,
of the short black hair on the back of her head
where she had had it shaved a month ago –
such a mod, all blacks and purples
and yellow stitched Docs.
Winnie Reds at the end
of platform 2, out of the rain,
and her blue school bag black texta-ed with the names
of bands, symbols.
She wore my grey school jumper in front of her friends
and wrote
an Anarchy sign in blue biro on my wrist,
the first girl I kissed
bought hip flasks of vodka.
And the silver train at night,
swaying to the city;
her legs in black stockings,
her feet crossed confidently on the seats, she's smiling
and her green eyes
right at me.
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