Dorothy Baird
Revisiting No. 33
Her home was up a clutter of stairs,
a twist of darkness, where the tap tap
of her stick tipped your spine.
Black skirts. Black shawl.
Fingers like heather roots.
The wind lists now at the glass,
unpicks the paint, scatters cherry blossom
from the trees folk used to say
should have been rowans,
and there's nothing there to show
the shiver of air
that hung around her door
- those clenched-heart dares
to ring her bell and run away.
It was said she never ate, it was said
she ate the dust, it was said
she smothered children,
it was said she knew the small talk
of the moon - so many words
chased us along the street
till we'd hurtle in a heap
behind a hedge
and believe
and not believe each other.
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