Poetry

Inheritance

Inheritance   I met you last night in a dream in the old house.   You were rearranging the furniture as I always remembered you doing.   The orange wallpaper with its 70’s brown swirls   still throbbed like a psychedelic toothache.   And there was the odd vacant smell of disinfectant as though someone had attempted to wash away a previous occupancy and not quite managed.   “Just help me with this coffee table, dear.”   You, Mother, were up to your elbows in the heft of transmigration.   “I thought this time, if I put the armchair there…

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