Paternal Grandmother Poem by Irene Cunningham

Most dragons belched fire:

old Sarah screamed
a brown stream from her nose

she breathed dust from
screwed-up paper bags
and sparkled
her eyes
with a brown-stained handkerchief

(one of many that shared
the washing line with knee-length
pink knickers) .

She dwelt in huge Paisley-patterned
tents that wrapped
and scooped the lumps
of her body to their hearts,

silver hair escaped in wisps
from a tight
bun in the nape of her neck

fat
grasping arms protruded
from her ears
smooth in navy Orlon.

Her hands hovered
above
a rusted shovel
that waited
in a coal bucket
to black our arses.

We listened
for the pad
of her tartan feet.

(Published in Envoi 1993)