i'm ten, you're nine. with your special blanket,
you make a teepee, i make a wigwam.
we play unknowingly at squaw and chief;
no cowboys, no firearms, no reservations.

my kids are ten and six. i wrap them carefully
in old jumpers unearthed at jumble sales.
both fathers have gone missing; they could be
in hiding, or in gaol, or in shallow graves.

men tied me to the bed, rather roughly
my underwear was ripped unpleasantly
i lost count how many times they did it
i tell myself "it doesn't matter now"

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