On the death of a South African Aunt

I've known your name all my life
and parcels and
crystallised fruit

I opened and expensive
handkerchiefs and foreign things.
You made birthdays exotic.

There was an orchestrated
fantasy, see under
the framed watercolour elephant
I could almost hear drums
and a grassy pulse, a mirage
of belonging.

You were an improved person for
never having swung me up
then watched me grow
to slow
self-destruct.

Refusing grief over
so many miles
discovering:

We were better off without
each other.