Teaspoon Full
It’s been passed down
not like a WW2 sibling’s shrunken jumper
to make ends meet in this then innocent country
but a curio of words that squeezed
between the searchlights under the wires
holding its breath as if guilty
its eyes night-wide in the memorized landscape
of audible suction of trip-up tussocks
and soft quiet weeds to the distant silk-mapped wood
off-casting its weighty answer into the slush
before the slit-eyed dogs drained the air for excitement.
After escape the curio waited for a post-war diplomacy
– until weeping had been bandaged in tissue and boxed
with faces of family never again to change expression –
then it spoke from the tongue of a guest in a pause
of conversation when subject matter had thinned
and coffee and chocolates had not yet been served.
‘Someone told me for the life of me I can’t think who
that a woman in one of the POW camps
had spread her daily ration of butter all over
her face …’
Jan Price