by Dorothy Lehane

The man I remember leaning against,
places me in the middle of the sofa, 
plays brown girl in the ring, tra la la la.
I’m not a brown girl, 
but that doesn’t matter.
Delicate: being held like this, 
in my father’s arms, his sashay step
to the words: Plum-plum 
the next play will be jazz.
It’s going to be a red summer. 
The sax begins to bleed.
Right place, right time.  
He was a peach, a hairy planet.
Once I listened as he taught 
my brother how to hold a woman
by the small of her back, so all other men 
see her arc of spine as sold.
Let’s say he’s alive again. 
What I really want to do
is fit neatly inside his shadow, 
whilst he talks to his friend
at the street corner.