Taxidermy
They come to dine in view of each other, sip wines
that roll off the English tongue like recent holidays.
A place with just the right balance of familiarity &
unfamiliarity: ceilings of black keys that have never
seen locks; the stuffed heads of game with dark
planets for eyes; the bright stirrups & bridles
hanging from warm stone walls beside a fire; the
shift of staff in matching shirts tapping the
glowing faces of tills, talking in the lull of
uni or the future or the video that went viral
an hour ago. Where do we go from here I wonder
sat by a woman who’s known me all my life,
whom I still don’t know, over whose face there’s a clouding,
a beginning to giving up, like a line to some
exhausting race was crossed before the finish &
the finish is all there is to come. It scares her
in ways no amount of years will ever prepare us for.
My gaze passes from Nan’s deliberate smile
to my nine-year-old sister, a touch of mum’s make-up,
& I’ve tucked myself in between life & death. This
our rustic table with its hard grain rubbed smooth
is where they come to demonstrate their influence.
We’ll have to walk with Nan through the far door
– slowly, slowly –
as some of the young & the middle-aged look on,
so safe from this they smile politely, carrying on
with their conversation,
their coq au vin,
their sauvignon.