Poetry

Great Aunt

The tragedy is, she says, there’s not enough sadness in me. She lilts, testing her hem between slender fingertips. I have exasperated inspiration, she sighs, collecting fallen strands of dust-coloured hair, brushing it across her smoothsoft cheek. I dreamt I caught a fish, she whispers, saw it shimmer in flight, the hook stuck in its pulsing mouth. It looked at me with liquid eyes like my father before he died; same wet questions. When I awoke, she says, the phone was ringing and I knew what you were going to say.  

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