The man I remember leaning against,

places me in the middle of the sofa, 

 

plays brown girl in the ring, tra la la la.

I’m not a brown girl, 

 

but that doesn’t matter.

Delicate: being held like this, 

 

in my father’s arms, his sashay step

to the words: Plum-plum 

 

the next play will be jazz.

It’s going to be a red summer. 

 

The sax begins to bleed.

Right place, right time.  

 

 

He was a peach, a hairy planet.

Once I listened as he taught 

 

my brother how to hold a woman

by the small of her back, so all other men 

 

see her arc of spine as sold.

Let’s say he’s alive again. 

 

What I really want to do

is fit neatly inside his shadow, 

 

whilst he talks to his friend

at the street corner.