Christmas at Granny Marr’s

Evening in Paris

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.

Ann Gibson

If you have any comments on this poem, Ann Gibson would be pleased to hear from you.