Keening

Keening

(for my grandmother Cass Elliot)

then the neighbours must have rallied
this new widow, her little son

red eyed i think she opened the door
admitted a pie covered in a linen cloth,
a jug of milk still frothing

if a man brought potatoes, fresh dug
laid them, humble on her front step
she took them in, didn't she -
they had to eat
and hunger was something
the child understood

not the burial outside the churchyard wall
not the father - sudden, gone
not the mother keening by the range
boiling milk