the problem with boys

the boy

Book lands face down on carpet.

Pen, pencil, ruler fly.
and anything else to hand...
Fresh black rubber marks on table tops

The boy gets angry! and chair legs protruding upwards through the tension.

The boy is angry. Thrown punches and spat out insults.

As angry as a boy

with nobody in this world Around the class

but his part-time mother. eyes sparkle with contained laughter

and shock paints the teachers face.

So he comes to school. But underneath this hostile and guarded exterior,

His emotions balled up the sweetest of young boys;

in his chest like a giants fist. well mannered and well capable.

Push him too hard

and the fingers spread And so I have to remember

releasing the tension and fear. that he brings his home life to school

because he doesn't know how to leave it behind.

Which manifest themselves That he doesn't hit out at me

as a reluctance to do work he hits out at the world.

which soon becomes a defiance And most importantly

and I raise the stakes I have to try to understand

and lay down an ultimatum. but remember that I never can

because I had great a childhood

Get up off the floor and I am privileged enough

and sit on your chair properly not to know how it feels.

or I'm going to have to tell mummy To have a part time mother,

how badly behaved you have been. working as a weekend prostitute,

I know the boy better, how did it get to this? from the house... you are supposed to be able to call home.

sheet lightening

It happens every Tuesday,
every Thursday
and sometimes on a Wednesday. He hears me, my voice penetrating his dreams,
Darion - the too tall for his age, he doesn't wake but he talks to me.
can't stop talking ten year old - has epilepsy. "I can see you. You're in my dream."
They say it's like sheet lightening going off in the brain "Who else is in your dream?" I ask him.

I don't know anything about that "Lots of people," he replies. "My family."

I only see the external pain. A smile washes over him,
but the serenity is soon lost,
At the back of the whale blue classroom as his face wrestles with a grimace
he tells me, that the whole of his upper body hurts and I ask him:

but that he was trying to keep it a secret "Where are you now?"
because he didn't want to disappoint anybody "I'm in a dark cell," he tells me. "Everyone's gone."

Part of me feels like crying as I tell him
nobody is going to be disappointed in you I reassure him that he is not alone
you are unwell and none of this is your fault. and that I am sat right next to him.

But it's nearly one o'clock.

I walk him down the atmosphere-less corridor The end of my day.

to the clinical stench So as he struggles to wake his legs,

of the white medical room I tell him "have a good weekend"

uncaringly placed next to the boisterous dinning hall and I leave him with somebody else.

where the nursery – the noisiest of them all - dine on fish and chips.

It must be Friday. I leave the school grounds and

It doesn't normally happen on Fridays. think about how we'll do this all again next week.

I go home.

Darion lies down on the bed but I don't leave him behind,

heavy eyed I think about him all night.

I tell him to close them He'll be fine.

and instantly he's asleep all puppy dog eyes.

I read the only Roald Dahl book I've never read before Waiting for me Monday morning

and wonky lines of fresh faced children stream by all puppy dog eyes.

some point, laugh and stare But I can't help but worry

“look the boy's fast asleep” they say “in school” about what's going on in his brain

the increased frequency of his "moments"

It's time that he woke up the cause and effect

he's had a full hour his mixed up emotions and

and although he could probably sleep all afternoon the repercussions on his confidence

he either needs to go home but most of all I just sit and think

or have some dinner and go back to class. about the sheet lightening going off in his head.

To Anthony. OR (The day I watched an 18 year old boy with

Down Syndrome give birth on the living room floor.)

For three hours each Friday

for the first school year I was in London

you were the only friend I needed.

I still often long for those carefree afternoons.

The hours we spent together,

circling the small 3^rd floor playground

on identical bikes, blue three wheel trikes.

That you loved so much,

your step dad bought you a black one for Christmas. But the one thing I never liked

Playing bus drivers: you Mel and me Margaret. The one thing I could never miss

The only way we would refer to one another The times the games got serious

and the only way you would introduce me... to everyone. when you became so emerged

that the games and reality merged and
The first time I watched you give birth to a baby boy, no amount of reasoning could stop you, from,

on the living room floor of the flat throwing chairs across the playground as a wrestler
designed to help you become more independent. and hurling abuse as an overly camp Jeremy Kyle.
I didn't know where to look, but

jumping right into the make believe. Or the day the heavy traffic holding up our buses

I knelt down beside you and held your hand, had been caused by your only son

as you pushed with all your strength being knocked down in the road up ahead

and screamed with all your lungs. and the very real tears you cried, for his very imaginary death

For John...

The room is alive with silence

chit chatter, chit chatter, chit chatter, my words falter

but amongst the word hungry mouths but my heart skips to take over

spitting out thesauruses

two do not speak. “a lot can be said about you

by the people who surround you

Dry lipped John lies dormant, and you have surrounded yourself with great people

a mind fully active and I believe that speaks volumes about you

but unable to will it as he once had and for who you are”

a body no longer his own

the last word drops - cold

I sit in the background. a stone gob stopper landing at my feet

stitched to my seat my eyes well

I translate and John shuffles to speak

semiquaver thoughts only his arid throat withholds permission

that hang in the stale air - between us but... he doesn't need to speak.

and interpret that he wishes he could mirror me As the room overflows

I watch the voices dance over him with a cascade of

but he remains the unwanted centre of attention. newly familiar voices,

Writing myself from the scene I decipher the harmonies

conversations fall short of my ears that distil from his eyes, like painful parched tears

and as I daydream and as warm bodies

one by one cool the emotion in the room,

arrogant voices are resettled down hall I fade back into my seat.

and a silence howls through the room This is the last time we speak.

manipulating my stillness

and that somebody has to be me

only the words don't come so easily

I wet a cotton bud on a damp sponge

before gently dabbing at

the earth scarred deep

where ancient tributaries once flowed

that are his cracked lips

I hope this is what his distant eyes wish

but more than this he wills me to break...