We’re in twin beds. Tucked up to chins in
fluff-pilled blankets with cool silk rims.
The light is dusk, but glowing too much for sleep.
Curtains are orange around applique children
made by our clever mum. A girl has a balloon.
A boy kicks a ball. Mum’s somewhere, not here.
We’re left upstairs, our legs swaddled flat.
So we pass our comfort words to and fro.
Spidoobat Biddy. Spidoobat Ben. Now,
mum loses memory with every jolt of life.
Left upstairs, she pleads, often: I don’t know
what you mean by spidoobat. Please tell me.
But she forgets we never had other words for it.
So we can’t help her remember.
Graftage 