Piercings
It took two looks to see him –
snapped head and loose jaw, silent
moviewise. The boy who broke me in,
my head, my skin, up, said “a break-
down would do you good”. The change
snuck him past me, but: same flesh,
same stride. I called; we spoke.
The quick, smiling chat of two
folk who knew inside each other's
mouths, but not heads. I looked hard.
The difference wasn't clear, and then
it was. – The lipring that turned
his pout sullen, hot. The jangle
of earrings I'd buried my face in
as he steel-tracked my heavy
shoulders. The scaffold. The sharp,
shocking stud in his busy tongue.
All gone. In the four years since
he hauled me into a lift, with
“You wanna make out?”, he'd pulled
out every metal sign, become
employable, less obvious. I'd paid
ten quid in Camden for my first, made
more holes each time I got depressed.
Got inked. He asked, “So what do you do now?”
‘Piercings’ © Harry Giles. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Stewed Rhubarb Press, 2012.
It took two looks to see him –
snapped head and loose jaw, silent
moviewise. The boy who broke me in,
my head, my skin, up, said “a break-
down would do you good”. The change
snuck him past me, but: same flesh,
same stride. I called; we spoke.
The quick, smiling chat of two
folk who knew inside each other's
mouths, but not heads. I looked hard.
The difference wasn't clear, and then
it was. – The lipring that turned
his pout sullen, hot. The jangle
of earrings I'd buried my face in
as he steel-tracked my heavy
shoulders. The scaffold. The sharp,
shocking stud in his busy tongue.
All gone. In the four years since
he hauled me into a lift, with
“You wanna make out?”, he'd pulled
out every metal sign, become
employable, less obvious. I'd paid
ten quid in Camden for my first, made
more holes each time I got depressed.
Got inked. He asked, “So what do you do now?”
‘Piercings’ © Harry Giles. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Stewed Rhubarb Press, 2012.
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Watch Harry Giles perform his work.
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