The Poem: ‘I was grotesque with summer, haloed’ by Cecilia Knapp

I was grotesque with summer, haloed

and freckled with light.
I gave up shoes for months,
read books on concrete steps.
I had a perfect little life, it was clear,
a rosy glow to my hands and face
even when asleep in a cold room.
Boys followed me politely round the quad
offering smooth cigarettes.
It was a different time!
I was thin as a racing dog, a flimsy thing
you could throw in the air
but I don’t remember going hungry,
we didn’t need food back then,
not in the same way.
I stayed up late most nights —
we all agreed that sleep was feeble.
My dead mum gave me a certain edge,
a useful note of sympathy.
I threw my look together with a flourish,
wore grandma’s clothes. A better time, simpler.
You could pick up an old car
for less than a hundred quid, and drive it
with no seatbelt,
right down the coast with men
you hardly knew.
Sure, a few of us had bruises
but boy did we know how to pump a clutch.
We were happy with our lot.
The world was pouring in on me, a barrel of ripe fruit
tipped over my head and I was sticky,
it was stunning.
My father had plenty of work, always seemed to be away.
People sent letters; it was a golden age!
There was that brief and sick bout of the weepies
that left me under the bridge in a tangle of blankets,
there was the sex on the floor of a basement
but it was still a misty joy to be alive.
And there was my brother
teetering, circling the drain,
but we were stronger then, didn’t need as much,
kept smiling and saying it could be worse.
Besides, I was pretty good at scooping him back up.
We made a game of it, a frivolous time! Magic!
The whole damn seaside tinged in pink
like the sun could set forever.

From ‘Peach Pig’ (published on October 6 by Corsair Poetry, £10.99)