In Churchill’s

The boy in the fish and chip shop
once felt sad enough to slice
the soft white skin
on the inside of his wrist.

He has a thick scar
shining wide and purple
like a fat worm sliding up his sleeve.
You’ll see a flash of it

as he deftly shovels and shakes
the shimmering fish and chips

in air that sparkles
with hot oil spit
and running salt.

He hands me three warm bundles,
each triple-wrapped
with thick folds
neatly tucked.