Movement In The House Poem by Irene Cunningham

I expected her to scream
but the smooth pink face beamed

It hadn’t done that before

I was nine, chin level
with polished mahogany on a trestle
brass handles curled fat
on the sides

My father pressed his hands
around my ribcage and lifted me
over to kiss his mother

I’d never been that close
I shrank my lips into my mouth
and touched
her nose with mine

Her bed was flat and pale
in bits against the wall –
the biggest piece of furniture in the house
dead too

White sheets pinned to the windows
fairy-taled the secret room

Eyes closed I listened
for the rustle of her apron
the squeak of pink rubber corsets
and wondered who would sleep there now.

(Published in New Welsh Review 1995)