‌Grevitt

For dinner

The smell of stomach Stomach full of gravy curds

Soaked in bicarb lumped milk-yellow and sick with thin lamb fat Our slip slop swede boiled up in scuffed melamine by Mrs Grevitt

For pudding

Martin and I would swallow the prune stones down Counting them down perched around the plate Sucking them down like rough tadpoles

Coughing them up for fear of Grevitt Clearing up

Jesus tacked on a fireplace on a mountain on a negro on a dinosaur Lording it with red Grevitt

Spying my plate for illegal smeared scraps

My pockets filled with gristle and string beans and scummy orange sponge Martin ate his

Later

Alice wouldn’t eat hers and Mrs Grevitt struck

Alice sat with her plate at her desk in the playground while we sat in inside and watched and she didn’t cry ever and didn’t eat that shit.

October 26, 2014