Little by Little
Every time you opened the door to me
you used to exclaim how I looked like your sister.
Perhaps you’ve forgotten her face
or maybe the resemblance is no longer there.
Nowadays you can’t stop yourself falling through
the sieve of missing tenses
so you pour an extra cup of tea,
forgetting your husband died last year
and have to be told again. When I hold
your hand and feel the thin grip
of your fingers I find it isn’t only you
who’s losing the link with my mother.
We might murmur to one another
if the sun over-heats the room perhaps
but most of the time we sit
as if alone. A door opens,
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