Laura
Varnam

               In my grandmother’s house

               under my grandmother’s bed–

               Wait. Let’s not look yet, Dad.

               It’s not like he’s going anywhere.

               With a bounce and a clap,

               A drawing – here! – paper flaps.

               How do you think of that, Dad?

               But when grandmother’s cracks

               surface unvarnished, the question

               slips back. How do you think

               of that? The tremor, shaking

               her Parkinson’s by the hand.

               On my grandmother’s wall,

               chuffed with his ruff

               and his wide-boy moustache–

               No, stick to grandmother’s hip,

               his suspicions will pass. Claptrap,

               that fact: eyes sticking like glue,

               the cavalier fixated on you? (Bung him

               under the bed, quick sticks, before

               grandmother sees and clicks).

               It’s not the cavalier under the bed,

               that gives me the jitters, Dad.

               The black sash, the upturned hat.

               The rapier crooked in his elbow–

               We needed his swagger for what

               was to come in my grandmother’s

               house, in my grandmother’s head.