He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Give me a smile
with lips stretched wide as a rubber band
and in between a set of straight white teeth
dazzling like a mirror ball.

Billy chased me round the playground
with hands full of fists

Billy yelled at me across the football pitch
with a mouth full of stings.

When Harry went away
he stole a part of Mum.
No-one warned us. 
No-one said.
We looked and looked for ages – 

It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. 
In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk 

I like to stay up
and listen
when big people talking
jumbie stories

I does feel
so tingly and excited
inside me

But when my mother say
“Girl, time for bed”

I wanna be a star.
I wanna go far.
I wanna drive around 
in a big red car.
I said yeah yeah yeah
I wanna be a star.

I write these poems

To make up for the empty slogans

that gassed me up and left me choking

I held too much in, now outspoken

is how I am, now my mind is open

Once everything was big
and you were small,
but year after year your shadow 
crept up the wall 
and you grew tall.

Let me do it, let me do it
Let me blow up the balloon
Let me do it, let me do it
Let me go to the moon