Home Movie Poem by gerard rochford

I know the scene – an aunt,
the mix of perfume and talc,
demanding a kiss
on her rouged target of cheek.

I am three: reluctantly oblige,
wipe my lips on my sleeve,
and hide again behind my mother.

But this is way different.
Gaddafi, that grotesque mask of a head,
closing down on a wee girl and asking:
Do you love your grandpa?
He repeats the question,
insisting, pleading.

After several lashes of his tongue,
she pushes her hand over his mouth,
shies away and confesses all she can,
a thumbs-up sign, avoiding the smell of his face.

Will she bear his name? And will she be spared the video
of her grandfather’s criminal death, the howling pack,
and only recall with pity that desperate face,
a scared old man in a tent, after all that killing,
still seeking love wherever it might be found?