A very cramped tent,

Mrs Brewer's lawn.

Saturday

Dear Dad-

Jane hasn't explained enough of the truth
to make sense. To be curt:
you may need to contact Melanie Ruth.
This will hurt.

Mum's self-styled 'lover', the awful Amanda
was a figment, a split,
a part of herself. She would put on a wig and a
pin-striped suit, then sit

on a chair in the kitchen and light a cigar
and shout, I am A Man-Dar-
lings. Have a drink at my bar.
Guess Who We Are.

She was good. The neighbours believed
Amanda was real,
a lesbian lover. We, of course, weren't deceived
but it wasn't ideal.

Our mother had patently lost the plot,
said Sid was our father.
Another invention. Of course he is not
and we'd rather

have you. You're a man set apart
from the rest. To prove it
she taught us this verse - we know it by heart
and we love it:

Know Stan thyself, presume not God to scan:
The proper study of stankind is Stan.

She studied you from almost every angle.
She wanted you back.
She knew you liked to squabble, loved a wrangle,
said there'd be flak

if she didn't get rid of Amanda. To let her aspire
Amanda must die.
So she planned a fire, a funeral pyre,
forgetting the tie

which bound them. They weren't two
but one. She went up like a torch.
We rescued ourselves¹, climbing out of the loo,
and onto the porch.

She was gone, she was gone, she was gone.
No point in fighting
the tears. We're alone. Appallingly alone
except for her writing.

She penned a sort of 'mandicide' note, farewell
to Amanda. Mad
we all know, but oh, you'll soon tell-
so terribly sad.

(p.t.o.)