Outside the crematorium ,
I am greeted by bullet stares.
Hissed Who is she ?
information sliding from the sides of mouths.
For a while the car park is the OK Corral,
my father’s family and I
facing each other like gun slingers.
But cousin Heather breaks ranks
crushes me in a 52 year old orphan’s hug,
the rest of the family stand down.
I thrust a hand at family features
distinctive as the Windsor’s ;
plasticine noses fashioned by a child
my mother’s genes have sculptured,
head strong curls
I have disciplined with straighteners,
skin pitted by extinct acne eruptions
I have masked with make up.
So in my trilby and swanky coat ,
surrounded by polyester suits and runaway ties
I look as if I am attending the wrong funeral.
If you have any comments on
this poem, Fiona
Sinclair would be pleased to hear them.