Who would have thought that the clearing out of an old family sewing box would discover so many trinkets, bits of trash, and treasures? Here is the fifth poem of nine for you.
My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena
Granny’s antique cigarette tins (tightly shut
For forty years) still smell—so faintly—of tobacco.
You inhale; you read the lid & scoff,
Will not affect your throat—ha-ha!
Inside: a hook that Allison & I both used
To crochet curly, swirly tea-cosies:
It rests with Granny’s lethal hat-pins.
How often Mum derided those!
Hats? Not for me! So daft. And hat pins?
Murder weapons, more like!
While we (who love to wear huge hats
And wild, exotic fascinators for a laugh)
Would never think of pinning them.
© Lizzie Ballagher