Copper
His brother found him, because there was no-one else there to.
The aftermath of what happens when a teenage boy,
not the favourite,
tries to protect a mother who,
to be honest,
prefers the other one.
When a fifteen year old boy arrives, coughing up something too thick and viscous to belong outside the body,
and that tastes like pennies
all over the A&E floor, and the brother holding him up tells you that he broke his ribs falling down the stairs,
who do you believe?
Teenage boys are big enough to hold their own against their parents.
Teenage boys are too busy breaking windows and stabbing each other to get caught up in domestic brawls.
Fifteen year old boys don’t get their cheekbones shattered protecting their mother.
What kind of century to we live in?
They didn’t take his statement
Because it’s difficult to talk when you’re having your jaw rewired
And the surgeon that stands there watching them
has seen hundreds and hundreds pass through her care
like currency
And it tastes like pennies
to see them standing there
line after line after line
with their skin as crimson and cream as the flowers absent from their bedside
and you can’t understand why that is.
And behind you, in the bath from the mirror
you see one
occasionally.
They can’t talk,
because their mouth is full of broken teeth,
but their eyes are asking that question that they all ask,
and the doctor asks,
and the judge and the jury and the magistrates ask
and you ask yourself when you’re lying alone, tangled in your covers on a headachy midnight-
Why?
And when it dawns on you
like some impromptu madness that,
actually,
the age of three is too young to lose your teeth,
what can you do?
Aside look at them
and name the broken bones
but not even know what their own name is
until you’re writing out the discharge notice
and sending them off, like a wave at the docks
from a mother to her soldier son
who knows he won’t come back.
So you sit there, holding your own hand and pretending it is his so hard you might cry
Repeating “Don't you drown darling, don’t you dare drown” in your head like a mantra
Or a prayer
So hard that at the back of your throat there is something that looks like blood
And smells like blood
But that tastes only like pennies
And you can match it to what is bubbling out of the corner of his mouth.
Because it’s the only connection you share.
And in ten years’ time, maybe it’s him putting his children in hospital.
Maybe it’s him who all this hate, all this cold rage
A deeper, more primal anger
Is directed at.
Maybe it’s him you never see.
Maybe he’s the victim of some gangland warfare
Or the perpetrator of some petty crime you read about in the Sunday paper
And mutter angrily to yourself about all day
And maybe write a letter to the editor
Then forget.
Maybe he tries to escape
By donning Her Majesty’s garb
And trying to shun years of weakness by turning himself into The Protector and the Hero
Who steps on a mine on his first day there.
Or maybe it’s him bought in as a drunken casualty of the night before
Lying in the gutter,
with his teeth broken against the kerb
and the taste of pennies in his mouth.
The aftermath of what happens when a teenage boy,
not the favourite,
tries to protect a mother who,
to be honest,
prefers the other one.
When a fifteen year old boy arrives, coughing up something too thick and viscous to belong outside the body,
and that tastes like pennies
all over the A&E floor, and the brother holding him up tells you that he broke his ribs falling down the stairs,
who do you believe?
Teenage boys are big enough to hold their own against their parents.
Teenage boys are too busy breaking windows and stabbing each other to get caught up in domestic brawls.
Fifteen year old boys don’t get their cheekbones shattered protecting their mother.
What kind of century to we live in?
They didn’t take his statement
Because it’s difficult to talk when you’re having your jaw rewired
And the surgeon that stands there watching them
has seen hundreds and hundreds pass through her care
like currency
And it tastes like pennies
to see them standing there
line after line after line
with their skin as crimson and cream as the flowers absent from their bedside
and you can’t understand why that is.
And behind you, in the bath from the mirror
you see one
occasionally.
They can’t talk,
because their mouth is full of broken teeth,
but their eyes are asking that question that they all ask,
and the doctor asks,
and the judge and the jury and the magistrates ask
and you ask yourself when you’re lying alone, tangled in your covers on a headachy midnight-
Why?
And when it dawns on you
like some impromptu madness that,
actually,
the age of three is too young to lose your teeth,
what can you do?
Aside look at them
and name the broken bones
but not even know what their own name is
until you’re writing out the discharge notice
and sending them off, like a wave at the docks
from a mother to her soldier son
who knows he won’t come back.
So you sit there, holding your own hand and pretending it is his so hard you might cry
Repeating “Don't you drown darling, don’t you dare drown” in your head like a mantra
Or a prayer
So hard that at the back of your throat there is something that looks like blood
And smells like blood
But that tastes only like pennies
And you can match it to what is bubbling out of the corner of his mouth.
Because it’s the only connection you share.
And in ten years’ time, maybe it’s him putting his children in hospital.
Maybe it’s him who all this hate, all this cold rage
A deeper, more primal anger
Is directed at.
Maybe it’s him you never see.
Maybe he’s the victim of some gangland warfare
Or the perpetrator of some petty crime you read about in the Sunday paper
And mutter angrily to yourself about all day
And maybe write a letter to the editor
Then forget.
Maybe he tries to escape
By donning Her Majesty’s garb
And trying to shun years of weakness by turning himself into The Protector and the Hero
Who steps on a mine on his first day there.
Or maybe it’s him bought in as a drunken casualty of the night before
Lying in the gutter,
with his teeth broken against the kerb
and the taste of pennies in his mouth.