bath magg
a magazine of new poetry
From dread of double maths
to when the puppy fat that dogged you
dug out bones, I’ve watched you growing
up on trains to London
and elsewhere. I know all the pet forms
of your names, handwritten on spines
weighing heavy on knees;
heavy as your years will feel, too soon.
Time is a looter. Spend your youth.
I’ve watched you growing up
on trains. Both with the runaway lusts
of my sex, and as a father –
my little girl is five.
And I’ve grown as protective of you
as her, daughters I’ll never have.