Jenny Hockey Poetry

Not at the Table

 

There we were in the dining room,

sitting where we’d been told, the children

unhappy as ever about their positions,

wanting to be closer to Mum or Dad

or the Yorkshires or the crackling

 

and no matter what exchanges of seat

were made, nothing appeased them until

the loaded trays of food appeared, wine

was poured and Grandad began to dwell

on proper horseradish, not the jar on the table

from M&S, nice enough though it was,

 

but horseradish grated from a root

as brown and long as a donkey’s dong

 

and after that everyone started to shout,

everyone had their own winkle or willy

or knob story to tell, everyone interrupting

each other and the dog, smiling to itself

under the table, waiting for the scraps.

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Jesus with Guinea Pigs

There’s always something to be done in our house.

But in between, my mum gets out her paints, completes

another Jesus and props his wet radiance on the easel,

 

his wounded body hanging there as I walk in from school,

fists clutching roadside grass grubbed up for Ginger

and Bobby Charlton squeaking their heads off in the shed.

 

Always that quiet conversation going on — something about

The Other Side, evidence of uncles who have crossed over.

Mum and Mr Sperring, the worry of his gifts.

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