Journal » Trout 16 » Red Glorious [Sonya Yelich]
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Red Glorious

Sonya Yelich

My grandmother is long dead with her porous bones
spreading through the earth & new motorway links to the left of her ear –
her noisy tongue adrift on the first words she spoke
Milk, cheese, meat.


Her eyebrows released of all that hair
& the parting of her legs with grey pubic shreds of frail curls.
The threadbare lips of her mouth and the way she swallowed the English
& handed back her own language of finite verbs & a mix of plush nouns –
to the postman atop his red glorious bike –
his mail from other lands. His packets.
And the trailing of clouds from alcoves of nameless streets.
The breakage of her blood vessels loose to the dirt spill.


Today – years later – the obstacle of the cemetery plot.
The way we conjure. The way we wave to the names on headstones –
as though there lies someone in the silt.


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© Copyright 2010 Sonya Yelich & Trout.