ROLLING, ROLLING
There
was a painting, in a small oval frame
In
my grandmother’s house, of a sailing ship
Crossing
the ocean, and I can’t remember
The
waves, but there was also another
Frame,
a photo, of a boy in a sailor suit,
Who
wasn’t her, but her father, I think,
And
they were on the kitchen wall, right by
Where
she once dropped me when
I
was little, so my teeth cut through
My
lower lip, and I needed stitches,
And
that still perceptibly shows, barely,
And
they’d drink tea and have bacon sandwiches
Slathered
with HP sauce, and when I was four
Or
five, and they talked about the old country,
Meaning
Ireland, or my grandfather’s London,
This
was in Montreal by the way, actually
My
Uncle’s house but he let her live there,
Because
my grandfather had died on a golf course
Under
a tree, during a storm, where he taught
The
game to wealthier men, of heart failure,
I
would look at the painting and imagine waves,
Dark
rolling dark waves, and how cold
How
terrifically deep cold and lonely
The
waves were, and how lonely the sailing was,
And
I’d feel a chill run through me, that felt like
A
future, where I would have travelled far
From
the warmth, and hilarity of those occasions,
To
a place of dark waves and rolling dark waves
On
top of dark waves, and it felt like England,
I
thought that is what England would be like, then.
NOVEMBER
17, 2020, LONDON
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