You clean the prefab in your all-round pinny,
wind a yellow tartan scarf around prickly curlers,
tuck in the fraying ends. I stand at the path’s edge
watch you scrub the step with a whetted stone, blood
in your meaty fists, strength in your back and thighs.
After, you tip Typhoo leaves into a warmed pot,
your gaze at the horizon beyond the window, beyond
the steaming water, the fluster of cups on saucers.

Aunt Sal brings the gossip. I am gripped, eyes fixed
on your lips, I mirror shapes you silently mouth,

work out the secret words it’s not my place to hear.