I’m delighted to say that this poem is now available to buy in book form, with amazing illustrations by Rima Staines. There’s another of the illustrations at the bottom of this post. It’s printed on 100% recycled paper in the UK by a worker’s co-op. Do take a look – it’s a beautiful, pocket-size book and only costs £7.50 + p&p!

You can buy it direct from us at the Hedgespoken Press website:

I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents lately, and wondering:

What if we all have to recover from childhood?

To be clear: I am not discussing abuse situations in this post. I am curious about the experience of being a child – small, without agency, growing and changing and learning at a fast rate – it is a very vulnerable state.

What if, regardless of parenting style, each person emerges from childhood wounded in some way? What if a reasonable, ‘normal’ childhood is an essentially wounding experience?

What if it is perfectly normal, perhaps even essential, to be wounded?

Bedfellow:

noun

an associate or collaborator, especially one who forms a temporary alliance for reasons of expediency:

Politics makes strange bedfellows.
I remember some WW2 propaganda that has always stuck with me. It was the image of a Russian soldier running and leaping into bed with Uncle Sam and a British soldier. I was still a child sneaking Time Life books, so I smirked at the unintended(?) homoeroticsm of Uncle Sam and big strapping masculine soldiers in bed together. Despite my initial juvenile sexual humor, the larger implication wasn’t lost on me.

“Our new bedfellow!” the poster proclaimed, reminding Americans that the war had shifted. Russia was on our side. The Nazis were still evil, but the Russians had seen the light, come to Jesus, and suddenly loved American liberty. They were our friends and allies. Sort of. 

This image has always stayed with me, and even as an adult I recall it when I see groups at polar ends of…