Boil

An angry sound with no pause at all
between the lip-pressed consonant
and the gush the release of fluid
the non-stoppability innocent enough

when it led to the whistle in the little
passageway my parents called the kitchen
the short window-less hall connecting
our shared bedroom to the front room

did we live there? I only remember solitary
hours crouched into the corner
where the BBC poured forth
Dan Dare Pilot of the Future

or the Light Service of endless classical music
50 years later the sounds with no names
never knowing Bach from Beethoven
until decades of repetition
 
imbued my soul with signatures
of emotions or calculus
all this released by the morning kettle
but those other sorts of eruptions

the doubling of bubble that
came on my knees all too often the knees
given over on Sundays to the hard boards
St. Mary's-on-the-Quay before the Lord

the genuflection that lasts so long
I had to sink back on my heels
till I disappeared from view
and my mother's knuckle would find

the tender place between my wings
and I would rise up once more
for Et Cum Spirit Tu Tuo
or a chime and glimpse

of the bedazzling circle of tasteless bread
and come away rubbing my right-
angled places now dotted with red
swellings the pus-filled follicles

of the post-war diet the boiled
sweets all calm on the surface
the world at peace but our mornings
unto the altar of God with a boil

and so on till I left home