he never spoke about the war
the thought of him rotting
in that chair
was too much

she left the soldiers behind
and kept walking

her trip had plateaued
dark greens forming
a border round her vision

by the waterfall
a felled tree that looked
as if pennies had been hammered
into its trunk
she felt the jagged edges
dig into her legs
as she sat and stared

even in the dark it had a beautiful
and constant melody
that pulled a string in her
unlocking a different memory

Peter’s hand emerging
from the wet
to grab her hair

the last time
she was allowed
to be
on her own
with her older brother

another source of fear

so here we’ll speak directly, because when it comes to the facts of identity, even the addled mind confronts sobriety

Disability has more forms: as many as there are humans in the world.

She was afraid of her brother’s personality, inseparable from disability. She had lost count of how many times he terrified her.

How many intricate and beloved possessions he had broken.

How many locks on every door.

How many times he could be blamed for what he did.

How glad she was when, at the age of thirteen, he was moved to social housing, then how she missed him.

How many instances she had been forced to take responsibility for him, though he was older.

How many friends had left her house in haste or tears.

How many times she had felt close to him, and wanted to hold him and explain things to him, but knew there was no point.

How strange it was when he rocked, or put his face so close to hers it felt like they were close to kissing.

How many scratches and bruises on her arms and the arms of her mother and father.

How many times she’d heard the words ‘spastic’, ‘retard’, ‘mong’ applied to her brother and others like him.

How many regretful looks she got when they realised what they’d said in front of her.

How many times she got served in the local pub, because she was fifteen and looked much older. She zones in on this. The conversation she overheard between some unknown men and her brother’s support worker. The one he told as a great self-aggrandising story, to illustrate his kindness.

as a waterfall
hits the pool
and forms innumerable
droplets
but still looks solid
to the human eye

so her memory
focused into one
cascading object
of anger
directed at the man
who impugned
her brother
down the pub

she remembered
every word he’d said
the patronising way he read
Peter’s four o clock Plan
his pseudo-intellectual ruminations
designed to impress shallow women
she couldn’t help it
his voice was in her head
the way he read