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.