My grandmother, in the kitchen,
is talking to herself.
‘I had a friend called Alice,’
she intones, low voiced.
‘My friend called Alice baked bread;
she baked bread, ever day,
She was ill, and never told anyone
(I never told anyone
this, but she never did.)
Then she died, and nobody worried
no one had worried, she never
told anyone – so,
nobody ever did.’
My grandmother, in the kitchen,
keeps talking, telling herself. She says
she had a friend called Alice – she
says this baking bread, her daily bread –
and I know she never did.
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Art lover. Loves her family and her dog.
Worked in the Australian rock music industry as a journalist and published widely as a poet before moving to London and spending the better part of a decade in advertising agencies. Returned to Australia and briefly tried teaching, primarily teaching English to non-English speaking, newly-arrived refugees but also as a high school classroom teacher. Has travelled Western Europe, North Africa, Russia, Northern India, East Asia, coastal USA, some Pacific Islands, and Australia.
