In a Home
When he sits in his chair by the window
my father’s head shines in the sun
like a hard-boiled egg.
There’s even a dip in his skull
where someone’s put a spoon
to open his cranium.
This was the surgeon who broke through
to the yolk
scooped out the soft mass
of the tumour.
When he sits in his chair by the window
my father’s head droops to his chest
as he snores after lunch
while he waits for me to visit.
When I arrive I see his pale pate through
glass, fine hairs knotted
into a silver halo.
I walk towards him, take his hand
from beneath an ill-fitting cardigan
that doesn’t belong to him,
and greet him with a kiss.
He raises his head,
looks at the clock on the wall,
lances me with a glance
as sharp as a spear,
and smiling, says
‘You’re eight minutes late.’
Josephine Lay is a published poet and writer; her most recent collection is Unravelling 2019. She is editor for Black Eyes Publishing UK and heads the Gloucestershire Poetry Society. She also hosts the monthly poetry event ‘Squawkers’ in Cheltenham.