The tame, respectable, hard-working folk
that I grew up around were very quick
to spin a lurid tale or two and give
a little girl a night of troubled dreams:
the evil imp that lived behind my wardrobe
and the monster underneath my bed,
the people in white coats who’d come
and get me if I misbehaved again,
the agonising death that surely followed
swallowing a fingernail, the children
I should stay away from who would only
do me down and laugh behind my back,
the strangers I should never trust, also
the enemy within the family, the miserable,
undeserving poor, the patronising rich,
the cat that scratched, the dog that bit,
the endless, ill-paid, unappreciated work,
the misery, the cynicism, lack of hope…
surprising, really, but the worse things get
the surer I become that they were wrong,
that all these stories were the creatures
of a quiet but overwhelming bitterness
we don’t have to succumb to – there are
always other ways to meet the world.