‘Stop at me,
Stop at me,
I’m not made of glass,’
My granny would say,
Until one day she fell
Down the yard
And shattered.
We knew then she’d been lying.
A ruin of fine pieces
Wrapped up in plaid skirt
And tweed jacket,
Painted the colours
That Granny had been.
In the fragments of her head
A candle,
Put out by the wind,
We saw what had shone,
From behind her stained irises.
And out from her belly,
Where her belly once was,
Came a sleepy snake, hissing.
It lives in a tank, now,
In the kitchen,
And we’re not sure if it crept down her throat,
While she slept,
Or is her,
Or what.