My Fathers
One wore a St Christopher, the other a watch.
One liked cricket, the other football.
One drove a Lotus, the other a Morris.
One was a nurse, the other sold turf.
One read Orwell, the other The Sun.
One sported a tweed jacket, the other leather.
One listened to brass bands, the other to Brubeck.
One took me to Brands Hatch, the other to Butlins.
One was Catholic, the other C of E.
One drank bitter, the other lager.
One was Clairol’s ‘Natural Nordic’, the other a darker blond.
One left when I was 7, the other arrived when I was 11.
One hit my mother, the other hit my dog.
I haven’t seen either of them in years.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Headbanger
You might not take me
for a headbanger,
but look down my back,
see that plait, ranged
along my spine.
When it shakes loose,
there’s sparks,
like metal meeting axe.
Dah dah dah
da da da da
da da da da
It might be true to say
that nothing seems to satisfy,
and the head is left,
unshaken.
• Katrina Naomi is studying for a Creative Writing MA at Goldsmiths.