Gillingham
Amy Key

Here the sands and me were sinking.
The house though upright, wore its mourning.
Nothing to lean into save the marcasite gutter

people dumped polished wood furniture into.
Internal walls came down. My father had a room
of his own, red, with a piano and Lenin,

who took up a whole wall. Upstairs I shared
with my sister; my three brothers in another.
We were in this together –

went shrimping from a stairwell on the Medway,
sold flimsy crabs to the cornershop,
were never dry enough when out in the rain.

We’d watched the films. Threat of war, invasion, pirate
capture was sincere. We hid in the Admiral’s Gardens,
necessary helicopters above.  Played football

or sat reverential in the air raid shelter,
decorated with posters of Garfield and Tom Cruise.
I learned to run, to secure a candle to a plate.

I learned fear has its uses, like when there’s a wire fence
to scale and how to steal, the Sunday School
deserved it. I knew the church, with its shallow pool

and congregational glare, had it in for us. I knew
the Government had it in for us (I had seen my mother cry).
I knew the Government had it in for us.

I had seen my mother cry and walk out of the house. 
I tried ‘nougat’, I tried ‘mango’.
I told my mother she couldn’t be my mother

as she had black hair; I had blonde.
I knew life would be impossible without her.
I knew about Thatcher, about being ‘in The Red’

and what mattered to Baptists and I had danced, alone,
to all of ‘True Blue’ by Madonna in the kitchen.
I held stick insects and locusts and an old man’s penis.

The hospital appointments (for I could not hear)
set me apart from the others.
As did seeing the old man ejaculate.

He had Imperial Leather soap and a panic bell
I ‘must not to pull.’
I did not know about this.

My brothers and sister and mother
and father I loved, though sometimes with reserve.
Best of all was being in the same car,

the seats folded down, travelling north
or to Minis Bay with a carnival wind,
night-time or lunch with the car doors closed.

One winter the snow was storybook.
We took bin liners to sledge in and our winter clothes
were ruined. I knew the word ‘saturated’.

I never expected my Dad to be there,
though we marched together. I sought
to cultivate fervour,

for that was how love might be won.
He bought me a violin without my ever asking.

Amy was brought up in Kent and South Tyneside. Her debut full collection Luxe was published by Salt in 2013. She is co-editor of online journal Poems in Which and editor of Best Friends Forever, poems on female friendship, forthcoming from The Emma Press.

Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter.
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