BY-BLOW

She – the she of rumour, of the mad hat,
Of the photograph – a toothless child on her lap,
A face like a polished apple –

She of the servants’ hall, the bobs and yes sirs
Before her apron took wing, her illicit lump revealed,
Hushed up, mouths stoppered, a cork in each bottle.

She, the mother of a son with a tarnished spoon –
The wrong side of the sheet, monogrammed,
White thread on white cotton, a Braille insinuation.

The tale passes from hand to hand, each generation
Seeking nobility in profile, forever in front of mirrors,
Examining their wrists for blue blood.

As if it mattered. They’d be better off
With a mad hat and some stolen silver,
Her cheeky gifts to herself – and who could grudge her?

Not the rascal who stuck a careless knee between hers;
Not perhaps the father who saw his name wither,
The line finished – unlike the lusty infant

Who sits in the shade of his mother’s hat –
A hat as large as a trophy, an ostrich feather dangling.
The boy winks for the camera. He has his father’s eyes.

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

It will be the only surviving photo.
He took her to America and gave her a wooden house,
A burning desert, and his family.

His eyes are intense and glassy,
His prophet's beard hiding most of his face.
Next to him, she scowls.

His hand rests heavily on her leg.
Neither of them wants this touch
But, like others, it seems necessary.

At times she wonders why she came.
She misses autumn, and her mother's cooking.
Marriage is big enough, without all this.

The photograph was her idea,
Something to send back home.
Your home is here, he tells her, missing the point.

His clumsy hand kills her smile.
She won't send the photo, he knows it,
He must have all of her.

They will have ten children
And know nothing but poverty.
Each child American, another heart tie.

Even if she could have seen the future
There was nowhere for her to run.
Endless desert, endless country, roadmaps gone.

She puts the photo with letters that smell of home.
She avoids herself in the mirror,
Refuses to acknowledge the distance, the sea between.

DAY OF THE DEAD

Mum chose my best dress, the blue one with lacy sleeves.
The arms were too short and crimplene made me itch.
She polished my shoes and I rubbed them on my socks,
Where they made pale grey stains, like shadows.

We held hands as we traipsed to the cemetery.
Someone had polished the marble till it shone.
Every grave had a fresh layer of glass chippings.
Mum filled our jam jars from the tap near the gates.

I spread the checked tablecloth on the grass
While Mum arranged the flowers – red, orange, bright pink –
Between three graves. Our family. Grandmother, grandfather,
Uncle. Three dates, separated by ten years, by twenty.

We unpacked fruit pies and cheese sandwiches, and apples.
Mum told me stories and sniffed the air.
Can you smell them? Can you see the pollen,
Dancing? Close your eyes…

I shut my eyes and felt someone blow on my eyelids.
A tickly kiss on my cheek. A tug on the hand that held the apple.
I took a bite and it tasted of honey.
There was no breeze but the yew trees shivered.

Mum passed me a skull made of sugar.
I tongued the eye sockets, felt the gritty sugar erode
And melt away. Sweetness filled my mouth.
Mum shook the tablecloth, scattering crumbs.

The graves opened up and took back their ghosts,
Each one tucked neatly beneath dark earth.
The smell of wormy soil lingered in the air.
It rained pollen. Mum held my hands and we danced.