Telegram

In the week the War was over

she leaned over the hedgerow,

cracking gum in the rain.

Dad would be home any minute, she said—

loping through iron gates, drops

spitting on his brow like wet bullets, propped

on a bad leg, arms wide open.

Poppies licking his fingers.

Fields of red, so she said, as though

she were speaking of fairies—

whole meadows, masses

splashed in the wild, curtseying

in their little red skirts ‘til the grasses
spat out the crouching-men, smoked,
found peace in flowers.
Later, wood crosses

pushed from the earth like bones,

calcium gifts, the rise of an old friend's rib.

From a crying gate, she frowned

at the thought of him sailing to Britain—

the apple-bobbing hills of gold;

roar of a slaughterhouse gun.

The late sky cramped with thunder

and Mother died making tea.

A letter, curled white on the milk-jug.

Telegrams told of the rain.