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Mimi Khalvati

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Family Footnotes

My arms in the sink, I half-listen
as someone keeps me company:
‘she’s such a sweetie-pie, isn’t she?’
I pause and to my own surprise

realise, seeing her suddenly through the eyes
of guests how small she seems;
like a robin redbreast perched with other
mothers I thank god aren’t mine.

My father cracks a joke on the transatlantic
line, misreading my alliances;
decades of regret still failing
to make her an easy butt.

But his laugh is warm bubble, a devil
to slip into, like the fold of his cheek
and the film of his eye, film that I know
my own before long will look through.

My children are with me, as always, my son
even now sleeping under covers
I have no more to do with. He is always
loving. To say this, to think this

seems suspect in a world such as ours.
How have we escaped it?
My daughter is about to bumble in the door,
late as usual, and be sweet to me,

nattering on as I clatter in the kitchen,
her breasts within an inch of my arm.
Nothing seems to rattle her; embarrassments
that floor me, still, at my age.

She is choc-a-block with courage;
fresh air on her cheeks like warpaint.
Pooled in this - this love - and this - and this -
what has riddled me to long for more?

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