GRANDMA'S HOUSE

Defunct flies lay clenched

tight as fists, webs hung low

near holy statues positioned

to ensure she'd go to heaven.

I nosed my uncles' rooms

while they were out at work,

broke open dog-ends, tasted

gold strands, sweet at first

but bitter in the throat.

 

She sang rebellion as her sponge

slopped from bucket to floor,

argued in the bare-bricked kitchen

with my aunt or cracked eggs

that turned white the moment

they hit the hot plate or wiped

my face before we went to Mass.

 

Carefree through the summer,

urging lead and plastic armies

to battle across the dingy carpet

then parties would erupt at night

with music from a portable,

naive young ears hearing 

the words all wrong.

 

Allegro Poetry 2018. Editor Sally Long.