1
To my grandmother
On the 49th day, God was kind, and made me your fourth child.

I don’t believe in God, but I believed in you.
At 55, you took me in and made me
in the image of your other children,

as closely as you could.

2
April is the cruellest month. I should never call the day my mother left “kind”.

Only 49 days of motherhood, then she was gone.

The years go by, her image fades,
the colours leached, the edges frayed,
but the day remains, an anniversary kept

most years, but not commented on.
She took the words we needed with her.
Though I sift her ashes, I won’t find them, know they’re gone.