Back then 
                                     15 in 1997
  
 we would dance all night 
 on a single glass of Coca-Cola 
 jealous of other girls’ endless snogging 
 we would think up queues of popstar boyfriends
 never saw the real boys ogling – drank beer
 way too stingy for gin – nobody cared
 about age and stuff – back then – we looked young 
 scream-sang ‘smack my bitch up’ at each other
 black-nailed – I was Ginger, you were Sporty
 drank Passoa for its colour – I stole
 a postcard of young Leo (still have it)
 we thought Be Here Now was great (still think it)
 and after school we’d watch Cartoon Network 
 Noel and Liam Weasel and Baboon
 back then – we were right
     
 Instead I am the cat
  
 oh, how the caged bird sings
 don’t we both know why
 I wish I could match its grace
 not be this uptight
  
 cat that’s clawing your curtains
 pacing restlessly
 left to right, then right to left
 left to right, then right to left
 meow once, claw again
  
 I’m so sorry, but not sorry
 to have ripped the pretty fabric
 your fault, surely your intention
 to close all the doors and windows
  
 not merely locking me in
 but pestering me, provoking me even
 with handles that are bound to be
 for something, someone, yet I’m too small to reach
 and frankly, do I look like I have goddamn thumbs anyway?
  
 once outside, outside, outside, in due course
 the sun will pet my fur – and I’ll purr as 
 the grass tickles the cushions of my paws
 then I’ll lick the raindrops out of puddles
 each sip another fragment of my dreams 
 tell me, what wouldn’t you do to taste yours?
  
 a heart-shaped snack of animal derivatives
 and an ever so well-meant pat on the head
 do calm me down enough once more, but you know
 I’ll wait patiently, even though
 I have no patience at all
 both you and I know
  
 ***
  
 this morning you forgot to close the kitchen door
 within seconds I stood between flowers and weeds
 not far away I could hear a bird sing
 it was… so… very… beautiful…
 then I did what any restless cat would do
 I got back in
  

 
 Singulars of the 21st century
  
 I have been blessed with a female posse
 of singular diversity. I have
 a friend who has never been
 floored by a burnout of some sort. I have
 a friend who has never been
 around a bad man for too long. I have
 a friend who has never been
 aroused by misogynous porn. I have
 a friend who has never been
 on a diet or weight-obsessed. I have
 a friend who has never been
 groped, assaulted, groomed, harassed. I have
 a friend who has never been
 close to suicide or depressed. I have
 yet to figure out the singular thing
 I need not have been to know I’m unique.
  
 
 Millennial of a certain age
  
 that hot summer night my mother pushed me outside
 to dry from her blood in last century’s moonlight
 fast forward to now ‘all you want is cash and fame!’
 dead wrong! to make a difference! that is all I crave!
 to be different!
  
 like the others
 I stare at my laptop in coffee shops
 I get up to pee, grab my phone but leave
 my computer, coat and wallet behind
 ‘cause the others have eyes for their own screens 
 only – like me
  
 another night, moonless sky, petrol-blue alleys
 I walk on my own, drizzling rain my sole jacket
 ingesting handfuls of crisps straight out of the bag
 salt and vinegar wrinkle my fingers – I am
 invincible