Mirror Apotheosis


Gran’s at peace nou, Da says,
as we settle the blinds, an line up the rest
o the chairs in the parlour.  He’s thinkin
lumpy wrists, swollen feet, an her hauf-roads there,
embosomed in shafts o pearly licht,
dabbed bi the priest.  Na, na, I don’t
think so – she’s in ahent the big ward-
robe mirror, faffin an plumpin like the fantoosh bird
she aeways was.  God knows, gettin the hang
o her wis nivir easy (ploys within ploys, wheels
within wheels) but I’ll lay a tenner she’s edgin alang
the scary suits, ony excuse.  Luik, in at the backs
o the holy saints, the jouk o an ee, a fox
aa bunched up under its chin, the killer heels.

Josephine Brogan