Granny's Corset



It smelled of caked talc and bicycle tyres,

small rivers bled into the seams.

When I entered the room I set my feet

in old steps – I never met the fireplace.


Most dragons belch fire; old Sarah screamed

nicotine from her nose, breathed-in dust

from screwed-up paper bags. She sparkled

her eyes with a stained handkerchief.


Fat, pink-boned rubber, laid an oblong

on her bed, but she was round! She boomed

around the house in huge paisley wraparounds,

wisps of silver hair trailed behind her.


I wanted to see how the magic worked

thought about slipping beneath the great bed

to spy on mounds of Granny, girdled into place.

I’d listen for the pad of her tartan feet.


Fe Fi Fo Fum, I smell the flesh of a young un!

Her voice was sharp as old snow, fat arms, smooth

in nylon, protruded from her ears. I’d lift dirty dishes

from the bedside and brush past pink flannel, to safety.


The End

50 comments about this poem Feed