You collect some of those
petal bunches as you leave.
Leave the quietness,
down the weathered stone steps,
past the runners, past the trees,
past the childhood memories
of lessons on trees and shrubs
and plants and flowers.
Out the gates, into the hustle
and bustle of Govanhill,
where so many memories
were made. Are still made.
The glamorous Southside
with red lipstick on, studded boots,
denim jacket with an anarchist patch
and an orange bandana in the left pocket.
An oasis of queerness
in a gentrified neighbourhood,
in a city with a rich dark past
connect to the Caribbean,
to slavery and colonial destruction.
The lines of the road fan our crumbling,
a ball rumbles up against the fence,
two kids, one teaching the other
how to ride a bike, how to stay upright.
You have fallen, joyfully.
