Heather Coffey
Familiar
On wet days her hair has leaves in it
and she wanders through the house –
I never ask her in, she has a key –
scattering droplets and twigs,
to settle on the unhoovered stairs,
happy to tell me yet again
about her field mouse years,
a time of nights in barns, of men.
She’ll rattle on like this, impossible
to shift, but then turns milk sour
with one good, spitting curse,
spins round, claps hands, is gone.
She’ll turn up again, in a cobweb.
I’ll fetch the old girl coffee.
Page(s) 46
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