The Child in a Drugs Raid (For Abigail)

The child in a drugs raid

may piss herself –

it's the shock.

The massive boom

The shouting. The splintering door.

 

The child in a drugs raid

may feel indignant

cut by the injustice

splitting their rooms;

 

Yes, there is the mould on the kitchen walls,

and there is the counter top next to the hob where they cook up.

But this is our kitchen. And who are you, anyway?

 

She knows that when the policeman stamps his foot on the small of John's

back, when John is on the floor and can't even do anything, that policeman is wrong.

Everyone knows John, and everyone knows he is not a bad man.

This means the policeman is a bully and he's not doing his job properly.

 

The child in a drugs raid

watches everything upended.

Helpless, she knows nothing will ever be the same. The dust will never settle,

those things will never be put back. They will live a fractured people

forever abandoned to the mound of odd shoes in the alcove under the stairs.

 

The child in a drugs raid

learns an abiding distrust of authority

uniforms

and visitors who turn up at the door with clip boards.

 

She may develop a tendency to flinch at sudden noises

a thirst for homeliness

for loyalty

and dull, ordinary things

she cannot stomach.

 

The child in a drugs raid

standing in the hallway, hoping no one notices that her socks are wet

hiding on the stairs, knees by her chest

is a noted referral

to Social Services

a minor, a witness

a number among the party.

 

The child in a drugs raid

brushes her fringe out of her eyes,

chews the hard skin on her thumb

picks at the scab on her shin, sniffs

and breathes out. She carries

generations inside her.