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At swimming once,I went to turn from front to backand just kept turning,just kept turning,turning over,over and over,till the swimming teacher said,
Dada taught me cards.Sitting in his suit of pants and vest.A fistful of joker-red hair strewn across his brow.His big belly like a cannon ball.
Dada has stories from Calcuttawrapped up in his big belly.When he belched they would unravel.
Billy chased me round the playgroundwith hands full of fists
Billy yelled at me across the football pitchwith a mouth full of stings.
The walls of the room are white and clean -all sign's of yesterdays sorrows scrubbedaway with bleach.
I told a whopper, a fib, a lie.Slipped out of my mouth. It was slimy, sly.
Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying coloursfrom countless corners of continents.
I was born with a map of Australia on my face;it was beautiful, my mother told me – there was nobody like me in the whole wide worldwho could trace the edges of down under
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
Toothless, she kisseswith fleshy lipsrounded, like mouthof a bottle, all wet
She bruises your facealmost, with twoloving tree-root hands.