Grandfather 1978
he is sitting in a high-backed chair watching fat wrestlers on TV
the screen thicker than a cartoon character’s glasses
his shirt grimy collared fraying around the cuffs his trousers
great clown-worthy trousers imprisoned in braces
and a belt surely made from the side of a cow
the liver-spotted arms the
muscles thin as his hair
that finger the third on his
left hand knuckled short
as if a knife has been taken to it as vicious as the one he uses
to de-string sausages for tea
and the sigh he gives when
I ask how the finger was lost
the words he speaks
Mametz Neuve Chappelle Wipers and finally
Passchendaele said as if his
mouth is clotted with mud
Flags
Some days we
receive them as gift,
held above us like
snow falling,
yet seeming to
rise, threads packed
thickly,
heavy with names. Threatening to wipe
away
the familiar paths beneath our feet.
Down here there is
nothing,
but waiting, trying
to remember
the lessons that
would make us safe,
forgetting how when
the storm comes we shall
find nothing to
cling to, the night
slick with ice; how
it is possible for frost to be made
in summer, how
there can be emblems waved,
celebrations at
which no one is found.