The unforgiven grandmother

I come from over the hills,
leave my tell-tale horse in the trees
and come by walking, silent.

I carry my good right hook, just in case
she tries anything.

I catch her near the gooseberry nets.
Surprised, she comes too close
then has to pretend she never
says or thinks anything.

I am a flowerfield she has to pick
her way through very carefully.

There are wasps all over the jam
in the kitchen. She hasn't had time.

I go with her to the ship in the unlit room
building itself slowly stick by stick in the dark.

page 121

Hat

Dad wouldn't be seen dead
without a hat.
Farm hat, summer hat, town hat
even when he had hair.

Hat on an angle, hat on horse,
hat in the truck with dogs.

We fished by stealth
stalked trout
with a spear and a light.
He wore his hat in the dark.

A mile apart by metal road
my grandmother lived
on her half of the farm.
No chance meetings, not even
a skyline sighting.

She lay in wait in town
watched
from the haberdashery
as he walked up the street.
She came out as if by accident.
Hand frail, and clasping
the front of her coat,
she gave a coy look
from the bags of her bloodhound eyes—
the whole air stopped

he raised his hat, went past.

page 122

We are allowed to visit at Christmas time (not on Christmas Day)

I'm on the driveway we don't go up
in a dress I never wear.
Smell the soft green lawn and warblers sing sing
to flowers, currants red and sour in the sun.
I watch them as they drink their tea.
Christmas lilies spilling pink scents.
My grandmother comes as a haze of butterflies:
it's a screen from behind which
she advances across the lawn,
concealing her net.
She wants to know everything: my cat, my kitten,
my school, my horse, my house—
she uses a particular sweet jam note
to find out about my father—aha
he's back at home
slashing the heads off thistles.