2

came home early, bagged off lessons. my secret cat is sat on a bin in the sun, boys are kicking a ball on the front; skinny, sunburnt town kids. i give a wave as i push the key in, get grins. the house has a good smell.
He is in the kitchen, through the crack in the door i see a bullet dangling from his lips as he scoops washing into the drum, leaning back and slamming the door with his knee. everything smells of washing powder, clean sheets; i can smell citrus shampoo on His hair, from the bath, from where i am in the front room. He doesn't see me.
i open the tank door and spray bubbles over with warm water: she stretches out for me to touch the white under her throat and lift her gently. i watch the humidity rise on the dial as she makes a ball round my arm, remind her no squeezing, then slide doors shut. she goes into her feeding bin in one enormous heavy twist, thinks i don't know she can move so fast. i pop warm mice in and the lid on. He still doesn't see me so i head upstairs, take makeup off, light some nag champa, start rolling a slow bullet.

i hear him loping down the corridoor. he starts when he comes in, me on the bed, lighting a spliff.
i didn't hear yous come in he says. leans down and gives us a kiss to the right of my nose then flops down next to me. lets out some big huffs, takes the bullet and tokes a bit, rearranges the gum and pops the roach in and out, tuts.

1

we are laid, prose, on the floor of the front room. me, white flesh glowing in sharp strips, one arm behind my head, moonlight slicing through the blinds. his head is tipped back as he tokes, smoke hanging in a milky cloud above the lips before being gulped down into wet lungs. something calm, by nina simone, is going in my ears.
we're smoking shotties. a little plug of baccy goes in the pipe, down into clean water in a dr pepper bottle. i tip some ground dry shreds into a bowl, push them into a ball between my fingertips, pop it in the pipe. letting out a big breath and holding the clipper to the hole, sucking in the smoke through bubbles of water, till the plug pops down and clouds the liquid. i let out a big lungful while propped up on the elbows. he laughs, yous look like a steam train, he says. toot toot.
i pack one for him and up he comes, lifting his enormous skinny torso into the light, his chest huge, wide, pearly pink and tan round the collarbones. the twisted cables of his arms pull tight as he flicks the lighter; he tips forward for a gulp of hot smoke as the shottie pops and looks pained, but holds in the smoke till he is laid again, and lets it rise from his throat in its own time,slow.