My Family and Other Superheroes (3 page)

for a morning at the unmoving men,

their fault-line features and their jigsaw jaws,

makes sketches in his head he'll never finish –

king's men firing the slowest bullets in the world

at those whose screams shatter their faces into pieces.

This tunnel traps the wind, makes catwalk models

of the men chasing Monday morning through it:

bank workers, weekend deserters, with long memories

in their laptops. Now this tramp, his duvet

growing from his chin, wondering how he got here,

wakes face-to-face with a universal manhood suffrage banner.

These bits-and-pieces men look at each other.

Capel Celyn

No one was killed here.

A military operation:

clipboards, walkie-talkies,

radar, body warmth.

They took away the gravestones.

A kind of utopia

where every shop sells fish,

public transport is scuba diving,

the crime rate zero.

Humane Pompeii, bathetic Armageddon.

In the lake, this drowned town

I would have been born in,

I see this other me, trapped, forever drowning.

And, in Liverpool, there must be something –

some taste as vague and definite as water.

In John F. Kennedy International Airport,

a toothy blonde, whose name tag said
Lucille,

served me at check-in. I showed my ticket, was surprised

when she said, ‘That's been cancelled. Sorry, sir.'

‘The flight to Cardiff's off?' I said. ‘It can't be, can it?'

‘No sir,' she said, ‘you don't quite understand. Wales

has been cancelled. It no longer exists.'

‘What?!' I said. ‘What do you mean, Wales doesn't exist?'

‘Sir, do try and calm down,' said Lucille.

‘The US Government has simply decided Wales

doesn't exist. You can hardly be surprised.

For God's sake, you guys never even made it

to the soccer World Cup finals. But don't worry, sir:

just for the convenience of clients like you, sir,

we've re-created the essential Welsh existence

in a small museum in Kansas. You'll just love it.

Male voice choirs sing
Calon Lân,
beamed Lucille,

‘as bonneted crones serve cawl-and-Welsh cake surprise,

and there are satellite link-ups with the King of Wales,

Tom Jones, and his sister, Catherine Zeta, direct from Wales

via LA. Now, could you please stop crying, sir?'

I glanced round the airport: it was full, to my surprise,

of Welshmen, mourning their land which didn't exist.

Wrapped in Welsh flags, girls ten times lusher than Lucille

asked each other where to they could score a hit

of cyanide, as men opened paracetamol, dropped it

into duty-free vodka, blubbing for Wales.

Dazed, I watched the next passenger approach Lucille

and her say, ‘I'm sorry, that's been cancelled, sir.'

This guy's suit was that quality they say no longer exists,

a daffodil in his lapel, so I was surprised,

when he heard Wales had been cancelled, he flashed a surprised

smile. When she told him they'd re-created it

in Kansas, he danced a jig, laughing, ‘Wales doesn't exist!'

That face looked familiar – who was this betrayer of Wales?

As she told him, ‘We'll switch you to the Hawaii flight, sir,'

I leaned in to hear and that was when she said it, old Lucille:

‘Our apologies again that Wales no longer exists.

What an honour and surprise to serve you. Please, call me Lucille.

Now I hope it's a pleasant flight, Mr First Minister, sir.'

FA Cup Winners on Open Top Bus Tour of my Village

I was down the park with my boy, having a kick about, when it came round the corner. Even from that distance, there was no mistaking the Versace smile of the star striker, the fairy-tale jaw of the captain. And was that the manager, cheeks red as the last inch of wine in the bottle, drunk at sunset in a hillside town in the South of France, from where you could look down on the world like you owned it?

Within minutes, the village was gathered: fathers and sons chanting grown men's names, sisters and mothers touching up make-up and cleavage. The players looked scared. The driver scratched his head, fiddled with the sat nav. Then Paul, a legend round here since losing his job, giving all his time to the Under 10s, forced his way on board, holding his son's autograph book like a begging bowl. We watched with amazement, then with anger, as the Chilean winger – the one you'd recognise from the Nike billboard – raised his fist to Paul and floored him. Suddenly, everyone was holding something: a rake, a mop, a Stanley knife, a car bumper. We went for the tyres, then the windows.

As the judge said later, in the absence of CCTV, and given the unreliable nature of witness statements, it's impossible to decide on responsibility. But let's just say this: it's easy to imagine, isn't it, what it would feel like to hold the FA Cup over your head, then bring it down –
crack!
– on twenty million quid's worth of right ankle, as the man you've been in love with for five years shakes and begs for mercy beneath you?

3

Girl

That girl's the girl I mean. That one now, wearing

no-animals-were-harmed-in-making-these-

leopardskin leggings, ears posing the question

of what are ears for, really,

but bearing the weight of the biggest silver-

coloured hoops on earth? In diamanté

scarlet heels, six inch,

when she walks, everything sparkles, everything

limps. Her hair is piled up on her head,

like the kind of coastal clifftop rampart

cameras swoop in at from the sea,

in historical action movies, featuring

Mel Gibson. Up her sleeve

is a tattoo, a Chinese symbol, and what it means

is clear. Look, that's her now, outside The Mermaid,

going a little cross-eyed as she draws

on a cigarette and shouts across the street,

asks an acquaintance if she'd like

some, would she? So how else

can I put it? How much clearer can I be?

That girl's the girl. That girl's the girl for me.

Welsh National Costume

Fancy dress? Always a laugh. My Tom Jones

sideburns-and-flares number in the bag,

we're drawn past Britney, Cinderella,

to a rail at the back. The pleats, the hat,

the lace. Your face. And later, the text you send:

Helpless. Help.
I rush round to find

you're a ball of tartan on your carpet,

a post-match, post-pub Scotsman, so

I dress you. The rule of thumb

is wherever I see a bit of body,

cover it with rough checked rug:

where there are bedclothes, tablecloths,

put them on, until you're mummified

by plaid. Hold it together with safety pins

and what my mother said.
This is murder

on my skin,
you moan, but I stick to it:

the peepshow frills, the death-bell bonnet,

tied with ribbon that makes your chin

a present. Now you're all dressed:

your body's imaginary, legs an idea,

and under all that cotton, what's the self?

The only way to get you back's to hug you

and it's then I feel it, down past all those layers

of cloth and history, the light, the dark:

the steady thrum, my love, of your English heart.

Us

Me on a three-day crash course in the language

of rail travel – floors are called chairs

and chairs are called beds – to show up at your door,

eighteen years to the minute since you were born.

Your face, as if

you'd opened the door to a six-foot bottle of milk.

Me buying pearls till your neck smiles,

then nicking them, pawning them, going to the dogs.

Me learning your language – the textbook a spittoon,

the consonants rattling like an abacus.

You, with your ears stoppered

with headphones, a giant medicine bottle.

Me putting my mouth where my money is,

hurting my knees and showing you the ring,

the shop assistant's home number

scribbled on the back of the receipt.

You, with your mouth so closed,

it's a buttonhole beneath your nose.

The Doll

I woke up with my arm round my wife,

the clock somewhere between four and five,

slipped out of bed and dressed in the dark.

Paused for the rhythm of her breathing,

quick-quick-slow across the landing,

muffled the door, set off for the park,

where night had turned off all the colours –

grey-black grass and grey-black flowers.

The swings took the piss out of the gallows

and the climbing frame held up the sky.

No child swung and no child climbed.

I found her stretched beneath the willows:

about the size of a healthy baby,

dress somewhere between a sneeze and a hankie,

here-and-now lips and elsewhere eyes.

Each cheek was red as a stop sign,

on her wood wood face on wood wood bones.

Who could have left her here? Who could have known?

In the crook of my arm I carried her home,

as dawn painted its watercolour,

made a sundial of each street light.

Before I got back I'd have to drop her

and never never make mention of her,

or of the reasons I walk out at night.

Decree Nisi

Kelly, this week I've filled the house with strange men:

the plumbers and plasterers, the ‘leccies and lackeys,

the lofty young shifters and shifty old lifters,

the chippies and butties, the world and his mate.

The cash-in-hand, the big white van

blocking natural light to the living room.

The painters in white overalls, the strip

they wear when drinking tea for England.

Kelly, this week I've filled the house with strange things.

Stepladders and handshakes, buckets with holes in:

I make a wish and throw the hourly rate in.

The settee's on the lawn, a madman's garden swing,

paintbrushes take up leg room in the sock drawer

and a hammer sneaks in with the knives and forks.

A photo of your mother's face down in the toilet;

dustsheets make ghosts of the tables and sideboard.

At ten to five they call it a day,

promise to be here bright and early.

I abracadabra the TV from under our old bedsheet,

settle down to a plate of leftover digestives.

It's then, Kel,

when the stars come out in the curtainless windows

and the telly echoes through my home.

It's then I say your name.

Jack-in-the-Box

Just when I think I've forgotten you,

they play that song on the radio,

or, sorting through junk, I come across photos:

you've sprung up again,

with your made-up grin, your stupid little hat.

With a school compass I gouge and scrape,

give you a Hitler moustache, a Glasgow smile,

then shut you up, lock you in.

As I'm fiddling with the matches,

you bounce up, prettier than ever.

I try the doll with long blonde hair,

who'll never give me the silent treatment

so long as I pull that string in her back.

But she doesn't have your spiral-staircase neck,

your irrepressible energy.

I snap and show up at your door.

You invite me in for coffee.

In the living room, there's a box, about my size:

you place a hand on my head,

push down against my suddenly springy legs.

The Bloke in the Coffee Shop

is a bloke and where he is is yes, you know,

a coffee shop. The bloke in the coffee shop

is what he is; he has in front of him

a coffee and his problems.
She's late again,

he thinks, although he doesn't have a watch

and it is now, precisely. This bloke has

problems, yes, but let's forget all that:

today is Saturday and not a day

for problems. If you saw him from above,

you'd see his hair, his coffee. You wouldn't see

his problems, would you? Also, you'd be tall,

so let's forget all that. Let us instead

describe him. Let's make a heroic effort,

pin him down with a word. Now here it goes:

dark.
No, that's his coffee. Our bloke's hair

is dark as well, but that's not what I meant –

What's meaning, really?
thinks some bloke somewhere.

Fuck coffee, I'm off for a Guinness, I am,

thinks the dark-haired bloke in the you-know-what,

soon to be himself, but somewhere else.

*

Meanwhile, the lady walking down the street

is in the street and walking. Walking quickly,

but not so quick to make a liar of me.

Her high heels make the noise they make. Her clothes

are what she's wearing. Sure, yes, she's late,

but doesn't have a watch, or has a watch,

but hasn't time to check it, being late.

How is the weather? Pissing down. Umbrellas

hover over heads like oh-so-faithful,

massive-winged and oh yes, somehow, handled

blackbirds. So much for similes. Our lady's

just passing what she might call a boutique,

so let's look in the window now and see her.

What is she like exactly? Violently

dimpled. A handbag which contains precisely

nothing. A heartbreaking nose that's pointing

at where she's going. In short, you know, a lady:

to see her dodge round puddles is to see her