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Kate Rhodes

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The Table

I knew you’d died when the table arrived.
Packed in tatty cardboard
The legs came first and then a few days later
The body, the tusks, the trunk.

The eyes were separate,
Wrapped in surgical cotton wool they fell to the floor
And looked up at me from the rug
Too moist, too knowing to pick up without gloves.

I searched the box for a note.
Upended, it offered sawdust,
A metre of bubblewrap,
But no clues.

I had to piece it all together.
The legs clicked into welcoming sockets,
But the tusks bit scratches into my palm
As I twisted them into place.

My memories assembled themselves too,
Slowly and with a small amount of pain.
Your house had floral patterns, frills, dainty china.
You were the maiden aunt no one wanted to visit.

You must have thought of me as you grew ill,
Watching the shadows move between the leaves and petals
Of the wallpaper roses in your bedroom.
You must have longed then for mysterious presents.

The elephant fits well in my living room.
Groomed and glossy, he smells of the nineteenth century.
I wish his eyes were different though –
I wish they didn’t follow me round the room.

 

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