Raised
‘Raised to the ground,’ I heard
A Zen koan perhaps, like one hand clapping.
McArdle would put his arms around me,
Pungent as he sat me on a board
Across the arms of his puce leather chair
A white sheet tied around my neck
like a surplice, a choirboy in St Donard’s,
“Short, back and sides, no oil please,”
(My granny said it made your hair grow too fast)
I’d give him a tanner and a three D bit
Hot from the palm of my hand
When, I was lifted on to the glass counter
in McAdams chemist shop
And my right boot removed, I stared at the blood-clotted sock as though it belonged to someone else, then across to where my mother fell when she fainted.
Maybe it was shock, that detached me from pain,
But maybe part of me knew I was being raised,
That none of this mattered.
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