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
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
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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