Shed
Sharpness is in there
and no mother.
Scarier than
her kitchen drawer.
A long dark door
I mustn’t enter
unless Dad takes me.
I like it better,
paint-tray bigger
than dustpan, plane-
blade brighter
than any grater.
He tells my brother
Don’t touch that
it’s hot mate.
White paint is peeling.
He uses the hotmate
to blow off paint
teaches me
undercoat,
explains the layers,
mixes colours.
I sit in the dirt,
don’t need to be told
Don’t touch
adoring the bubble
that can’t get out,
the block he uses
to make things straight
that he calls spirit
level. Shows me plumb
and lets me play
with sandpaper like
a face unshaven
unfolded from pouch
of oily apron
loaded with nails
like the million pins
in Mum’s sewing box
but nails are serious:
I know from threats
of rust-and-tetanus,
they melt and sink
under his claw hammer
which can also yank
them back, can make
your thumbnail
turn black: get back.
Smitten, I weigh
smooth wood
of hammer
and axe-handle
when he’s not looking,
hold my breath at
loud axe-head
biting the red
stump of wood get back
get back as the chips
sting my bare legs
because I love
the smell of sap
the same way
clippings fly
damp and rich
hitting and nipping me
as he mows the lawn.
We follow on
when he sits down
for a drink
after a hard day’s work
one on each knee:
my brother and me
until he begins to smoke
and sets us at his feet
for fear of ash
for safety’s sake,
brown bottles poke
from a paper bag
soggy at edges,
he sings of a clock
that stopped short never
to go again
Tracy Ryan
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