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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


Alice wouldn’t eat hers and Miss 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.