Somewhat Unravelled
Auntie stands by the kettle, looking at the kettle
and says, help me, where it the kettle?
I say, little auntie, the curlicues and hopscotch grids
unfurling in your brain have hidden it from you. Let me
make you a cup of tea. She says ah ha! but I do
my crossword, don’t I, OK not the difficult one, the one
with the wasname? Cryptic clues. Not that. I say,
auntie, little auntie, we were never cryptic
so let’s not start now. I appreciate your straight-on talk,
the built-up toilet seats, the way you wish poetry
were just my hobby, our cruises on the stair lift,
your concern about my weight, the special seat in the bath.
We know where we are. She says, nurse told me I
should furniture-walk around the house, holding on to it.
I say, little auntie you are a plump armchair
in flight, a kitchen table on a difficult hike without boots,
you do the sideboard crawl like no one else, you are a sofa
rumba, you go to sleep like a rug. She says,
I don’t like eating. Just as well you’ve got
a good appetite. I say littlest auntie, my very little auntie
(because she is shrinking now, in front of me)
let me cook for you, a meal so wholesome and blimmin’
pungent with garlic you will dance on it and
eat it through your feet. Then she says don’t you
ever want to go market and get lost
in pots, fruit and random fabric? Don’t you
want to experiment with rain, hide out in storms,
cover your body with a layer only one raindrop
thick? Don’t you want to sell your nail-clippings
online? She says, look at you, with all your language,
you never became the flower your mother
wanted but it’s not too late, come with me
and rootle in the earth outside my front window,
set yourself in the special bed, the one only
wasname is allowed to garden and we will practise
opening and closing and we’ll follow the sun
with our faces until the cows come home.