Thomas Kinsella(b. 1928)
Ancestor
I was going up to say something,
and stopped. Her profile against the curtains
was old, and dark like a hunting bird's.
It was the way she perched on the high stool,
staring into herself, with one fist
gripping the side of the barrier around her desk
—or her head held by something, from inside.
And not caring for anything around her
or anyone there by the shelves.
I caught a faint smell, musky and queer.
I may have made some sound—she stopped rocking
and pressed her fist in her lap; then she stood up
and shut down the lid of the desk, and turned the key.
She shoved a small bottle under her aprons
and came toward me, darkening the passageway.
Ancestor . . . among sweet- and fruit-boxes.
Her black heart . . .
Was that a sigh
—brushing by me in the shadows,
with her heaped aprons, through the red hangings
to the scullery, and down to the back room.