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Samantha Johnson

My Grandfather

​wept often, blue pebble eyes
wet, long chin quivering once
he called me to him, called me pet
 
and covered my small hand with his
old geography, misshapen riverbeds
seeping blood through band-aids
 
memory too goes thin, even while
hair remains white and vainglorious
pocket-comb in reach as surely as
 
he built this house, laid grout
and violence in each chiselled brick
brought up terrible earth in trenches
 
there is only salt to speak of left
leaning each day against phantoms
watchfully – cargo ships come and go
 
and so does he, asking for smoko
and forgiveness to be granted
by a child for her mother, and hers
 
of course I forgive you, Granddad
I say, this is the quickest way to leave
his knee, or receive another biscuit

Biography

Picture
Samantha Johnson (she/her) is a poet in Melbourne, working on her debut collection.  Her work explores grace and grief – apron strings of time spent in the domestic.  She writes on the unceded land of the Traditional Owners of the Kulin Nation and acknowledges their elders, culture and creativity.  You can find her tweeting words at @joyandcorduroy 
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Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
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  • Issues
    • Issue 50
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    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions