Frances Nora Allday
She was already small by the time I knew her
and history hung in the wardrobe
behind her chestnut eyes,
behind the sticks and hats and Canasta,
time never pressed her,
gravity settled her into a chair by the open fire
drained her height into stiffness
and dog-bone hands,
her wizened mouth crumbled humbugs and ginger
question and answer froze
on the tip of her finger, waiting patiently
to resume
since her first interruption (my father).
Page(s) 169
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