After the Wake
 
I see for a moment,
my mother
in my aunt’s face.  
 
sibling similarity
scrolling over her features.
 
She reaches for my hand.
Tepid affection echoes
as her jangling bracelets,
fall,
gathering around her wrists.
 
‘There’s chicken in the fridge,’ she mimes
through miles of mudded murmurs.
I nod
politeness moulding my lips into a smile.
She smiles back, her generous teeth,
 
nothing like mum's
flash like blades.
 
 
In fluorescent silence, she
acknowledges
the food will remain
in the fridge
until it rots.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Andrea Bowd  would be pleased to hear them.