Crocheted Dress

She has now, liver spotted hands.
We're lucky, I tell my brother
but he's trying to watch the rugby,
cares if England wins.
She has a shoebox of memories
down off the shelf.
I am trying to digest the roast
it's coating my throat
with thickness.
Come on! My brother shouts
at the tv, slaps his knee.
On the table, a pile of thin rememberings.
She claims this picture
of an Indian street was her father's.
I don't point out the cars, the army truck.
Her father
forty years too soon for those.
Get in there my brother bellows,
dirty bastards!
Here I am in a crocheted dress
she cries, delighted.
What a pair of legs!
Sitting badly, the roast's at sea
in me. Grease, lamb, carrots.
She shows me her first passport,
looks at the clock.
Teatime!
She's already made the cake.
I stand in the doorway
waiting for my fat brother
to come to the table.
To eat again.