(no subject)

Flicker-for Molly Crabapple


I carve a joint of lamb. The shoulderbone
emerges as the lean meat disappears
on to our plates. My face is carved by years
and now I see Mother Potatocrone

emerge. I know she's my grandmothers' face
the pair of them. I hope that in my eyes
there's humour like theirs. Nice to be as wise.
And as I watch the mirror, shadows chase

from mood to mood. Keen, fresh-faced and fourteen
still shows up; sick and pained, drained close to death
is there; gleaming with sweat, heaving her breath
fresh-fucked and fucking. All these I have been

and still I am. They flicker and then go
like things half-seen through blinding falling snow