Christmas at Granny
I ran down the narrow hallway
past hooks heaped with heavy coats,
away from teasing uncles.
In the kitchen she lifted me on to her lap
wiped my eyes with lace hanky
wafting Evening in Paris
(a place she’d never been),
her quiet voice lost in the din of male domain.
Cradled by thin bones,
I hugged her crepe blouse,
pinned high with jewel-eyed plastic Bambi,
my last year’s treasured gift.
By Boxing Day she’d had enough,
taken to her bed.
In that room, all voices were muted
and she could be heard.
At the dressing table I played
with pink-bulb perfume sprays and Cuticura talc,
listened to wily lines
I couldn’t yet read between.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ann Gibson would be
pleased to hear from you.