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Muttering occasionally
my grandmother stands
blow-drying her back to reheat sweat
pressed from the exhausted pores
by the wriggle of a living war,
repented but unmourned
repented but unmourned
at three in the morning
with the television watching over her
(stormy-eyed strangers cry the end is nigh, the end is nigh
but how nigh exactly nobody’s quite sure
nobody’s quite sure whether anybody cares
anybody reckons Somebody might know
but somebody’s not available for comment at this or any other time)
Cicero, the superior lineage sausage dog,
permanently crazed and
every bristle
the ailing aristocrat,
contemplates her steepness
with a longing frown
every dog-second
renewing his vow to
orbit this
mistress monolith
for every dog-day to come
Modestly unaware of
her scruffy satellite’s frenzied admiration
The queen mother of intricate sorrow
reclines
into a heap of pink blanket
Liselotte at dawn
like a woollen statue
behind Germany’s pale and polished glass eye
singing Lilly Marlen
to the blinds, not the sky.
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Liselotte at Dawn - Excerpt