Mary Mulholland
the grandmothers
a cluster of parisian grandmothers
fakely blond or black-haired
are elegantly chatting and laughing
a half-eye on their grandchildren
and the playground is full
of high-pitched mamie and grandmère
i’m digging nails into palms
following my child’s children
as they scale spider ropes designed for big boys
but they’re not and they’re at the top—
i can see the little one falling
blood pouring eyes unblinking
the other grandmothers staring shocked
and me barely speaking their language
i want to ask if i came here daily
would i ease into role
or are they secretly stabbing palms
with their scarlet nails
i call to the boys let’s go
and they fly off on scooters
narrow pavements buses and car-horns
they’re laughing i’m running
then we’re back—up six floors no lift
supper bath endless stories
books mostly in french
i wake to their gentle breathing
what is the language of dreams
soon my daughter will open the door
a waft of cigarette-perfume-wine
she’ll ask did you have a fun time
and i’ll say yes everything went fine
This year MARY MULHOLLAND’s published in Stand, Spelt, Finished Creatures, among others, longlisted in the National Poetry Prize, Rialto Nature & Place, placed in Wolves, Teignmouth, and mentioned in others. Her pamphlet is What the sheep taught me (Live Canon, 2022)