ME

There used to be a podgy funny child. She died. She’s gone.
You can still see her photographs in the parlour. She shrieked as she scampered
round the house until she and her laughter stopped. It surprised no one
even though she had been loved so much, so pampered.

 As she slowly began to fade from the house there were no lamentations or tears.
Toys, dresses, discarded souvenirs crammed the attic.
Mama would watch by her cradle even into the small hours,
yet she never cries today, remembering it.

Her name was the same as mine so everyone thinks she’s me,
so they never dug a grave big enough for a mole, let alone for a human.
She is forgotten and lost. That’s why at night she howls in the chimney
that her place has been taken by some wicked woman…

 (1924)