Sglyfath
My father’s tongue flicked the fiery Welsh;
I flicked two fingers back at him and ancestry.
Assaults, volleys, skirmishes, stormed fortresses;
ignorant oppression, futile wars for independence.
Siarad Cymraeg? Fuck off, Nain. Fuck off, Taid.
Fires of defiance dowsed by drink on both sides –
the plain set for the final conflict, this hospice bed.
Lids hide the eyes of the beast though I count coup:
one clasped, clammy hand, a cold kiss on cool brow,
and fingers placed where a pulse should beat
like dragon wings. But there’s nothing Welsh
unless still deep within the marrow.
Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native north Wales. His poetry pamphlets The Devil’s Tattoo (2015) and Sloth and the Art of Self-deprecation (2018) are both published by Indigo Dreams. Brett is co-editor of Prole.