Your flat all yellow, like linseed

Your flat all yellow, like linseed

I don't know what I can give you in place of the post office,
photos of the twins and great hydrangeas somehow seem insulting.
I want to tell you that the pile of broken faced plates
that you keep in a shoebox under the stairs,
might be useful for a school stall,
that the flour you keep weevil free in polystyrene
will make some bread, worthy of a Queen's coronation,
but I don't in case you sharp glance me.

I know that you let the phone ring nine times before answering,
close the curtains each time you make tea,
knit wool warmers for feral kittens,
keep winter air warm with kettle steam.

You claim your back is a hotplate,
your breastbone tough as beef,
your skin not older but knife hatched,
that you've secret tannin maps on your teeth.
But you keep your lips closed
say that it would be wrong for family to see
all the brave things you did to keep your patch of country,

and then you slip it to me anyway
just as I'm leaving the step,
with a bundle full of letters
and still no more information about your health.