‘I’m like, the whole of space,’
Her back against the store-room cupboard.
‘I’ve got earth inside of me.’
The black flecks speckle the sink,
Flies in a white oblivion.
‘Look what I’ve got.’ Donna draws a Card
From her coat pocket,
Which lay across the printer refills. Dinner for One plays
On the old telly,
Balanced on boxes.
‘The lottery,’ Kiera laughs. Her cheeks are speckled, too.
But crimson, like ruby dust. The butler man trips,
Again and again. The stupid tiger’s head.
‘They ran out of coffee,’ says Donna.
‘Have you checked it, yet?’
‘I don’t really know how to.’
‘My grandfather, he used to win these things all the time.’
Kiera sits up. She lays her legs
In Donna’s lap. James clicks his heels. It was funny, once.
‘Once, he won a few tens of thousands.’
‘Spent the money on tickets for Shakespeare’s Globe,
For ten London primary schools. He thought the young needed
To hear the Bard.’
Donna had searched it once before,
Or a few times: what it was
That people did when the cogs of life were not triggered
By their love.
Never mind Shakespeare –
She needed to create them, first. Some adopted.
Some borrowed sperm. Donna could see Kiera’s face,
As her body split open –
Knowing the gooey, purple child
Was half some unknown splatter in a plastic cup.
‘Don’t drop me at mine, Rick,’
She said, between back-to-back Fleetwood Mac.