An Extract from The Don't Touch Garden by Kate Foley
My mother’s story
skimmed blue as milk
rounds no stones in buried watercourses
deposits no shattered teacups
and as breath
grows thin and fitful no longer equal to the task
scattering the small hard seed of consonants and vowels.
The ponderous gold grille of the bakelite
fragments and static foreign as semaphore.
Where do the words go?
Up in Annie’s room behind the clock she said.
Let me tell it I’d say.
You weren’t there she’d answer as if there was a time
when I was not.
Now I must go quietly and cannily as an evening fox
carrying my wounded bundle of news
in my careful mouth.