stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 14343
    [post_author] => 4
    [post_date] => 2012-02-03 19:37:25
    [post_date_gmt] => 2012-02-03 19:37:25
    [post_content] => You don’t think I remember but
I do. Oh boy, do I remember.
Your lips, like kissing a cyst.
Wet and oily, like a kiss from
A fisherman. It was your plan
Wasn’t it, to get me drunk?
And wasn’t it you who murmured
My arse was like two guard cells
Round a stoma? Well, you owned
A car didn’t you? That practically
Made you God. You could have turned
Amsterdam into Mecca, knowing you
Like I know you now. You’re wondering
Aren’t you, how I remember. I don’t
Know either. Divine inspiration?
Or maybe I’m inventing? That’s what
Us girls do someone said.
And it reminds me of what my aunt was saying,
About how she got home one night,
Dressed like a bride in white,
On the handlebars of her boyfriend’s
Bike. His hands kneading her wrist.
I never got home by the way.
I met day wrapped in a ripped
Dress with a broken wrist and
Two bruises where my breasts
Should be. The doctor sent
Me home with a child on the way.
Beating it’s breast inside my chest.
I wonder what marriage will feel like
To you? Will your wife give bother?
Can the boy box? Can he swing a punch?
When there’s an infant in my arms,
And your past is a myth,
Remember the pinch you gave
Me, that still smarts when I slumber,
Memories like undertow.
    [post_title] => Girl from Cookstown
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => girl-from-cookstown
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2015-11-26 13:07:42
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2015-11-26 13:07:42
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=14343
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2012
            [wpcf-summary-description] => Glyn Maxwell says: Dominic McGrath’s ‘Girl from Cookstown’ is brave, forlorn and indestructible, she’s abused and disabused, wide awake and hurting. This is a poet acutely hearing: ‘You don’t think I remember but/I do. Oh boy, do I remember.’ The placement of that second ‘remember’ draws the word out in pain, as her memories can’t stop doing. This ugly-looking line-break is perfect spoken aloud: ‘That’s what/Us girls do someone said.’ And for the sounding of an abyss between woman and man, it’s hard to better this: ‘When there’s an infant in my arms,/And your past is a myth,/Remember the pinch you gave/Me…’
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Dramatic Monologue Challenge 2012
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 13617
            [forename] => Dominic 
            [surname] => McGrath
            [title] => Dominic McGrath
            [slug] => dominic-mcgrath
            [content] => Dominic McGrath is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Dramatic monologue' poetry challenge.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 13617
    [forename] => Dominic 
    [surname] => McGrath
    [title] => Dominic McGrath
    [slug] => dominic-mcgrath
    [content] => Dominic McGrath is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Dramatic monologue' poetry challenge.
)

Girl from Cookstown

Dominic McGrath

You don’t think I remember but
I do. Oh boy, do I remember.
Your lips, like kissing a cyst.
Wet and oily, like a kiss from
A fisherman. It was your plan
Wasn’t it, to get me drunk?
And wasn’t it you who murmured
My arse was like two guard cells
Round a stoma? Well, you owned
A car didn’t you? That practically
Made you God. You could have turned
Amsterdam into Mecca, knowing you
Like I know you now. You’re wondering
Aren’t you, how I remember. I don’t
Know either. Divine inspiration?
Or maybe I’m inventing? That’s what
Us girls do someone said.
And it reminds me of what my aunt was saying,
About how she got home one night,
Dressed like a bride in white,
On the handlebars of her boyfriend’s
Bike. His hands kneading her wrist.
I never got home by the way.
I met day wrapped in a ripped
Dress with a broken wrist and
Two bruises where my breasts
Should be. The doctor sent
Me home with a child on the way.
Beating it’s breast inside my chest.
I wonder what marriage will feel like
To you? Will your wife give bother?
Can the boy box? Can he swing a punch?
When there’s an infant in my arms,
And your past is a myth,
Remember the pinch you gave
Me, that still smarts when I slumber,
Memories like undertow.