the thin soles of those canvas slip-ons four sizes too big, second or fifth or thirty-fifth hand and rusted about the buckles; that cotton coat with not even mesh for lining, those gloveless fingers and wool tights with more holes than wool;


that breakfastless vomit you showed me. You showed me your stomach has another purpose


you don’t understand. You say mother told you that.


In those canvas shoes, you spin around all beads and dreads. You bounce higher on that empty stomach than the others. And then you nod off. Suddenly. Sat up. With those others. All of you in that cycle: freshness. Exhaustion. Hunger. Excitement. Luck. Poverty. Love. Abandonment. Attention-seeking. I understand why and when you do it. I don’t want to turn you away too. The power is not mine. It rings


like a telephone when it wants; at four, your distraction is not linked to the financial state of you. At eleven it is. At fifteen, criminality welcomes. At eighteen, they talk of inevitability.


They didn’t know you at four. You were untouchable. Not broken.


Clare Saponia 7


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