Once Bitten

During supper she mistook
the far-off tinkling
of broken glass for a waterfall
and as our jollity
swelled with the Christmas poitin
carrying us into the small hours
she related
how a fellow-passenger
on the Transalpine Express
turned out to be a palmist
and foretold that she would
have six children, all girls,
and live to be a hundred.

I could tell by the incline
and stillness of his face
that my father was
bewitched by her.
Some months later
when I’d returned alone
he and I strode
across Hunter’s Field
through a bar-room mizzle
in search of rabbits.
Out of nowhere
he mentioned her,
likening her smile
to opening a chapter
in a favourite book,
though I wasn’t so sure
precisely what he meant.
 
Through the dormer window
I could make out
the fingertips of dawn.
We lay in my childhood bed
cradling against the cold.
This is like
the fucking third world
she said,
deflecting my hand
as it sneaked towards her breast
and turning non-negotiably
to sleep.