Blame
Blame the refrain of the backroom ballad
my boozy British grandfather
sang before dinner
as the reason
the boys in our family
never shed a public tear.
She doesn’t love me now,
but it’s no use to pine
rang out above the spread
of red leaf salad
and well done beef
as sad Nana hovered
over sherry
while we puzzled
over pine
which was to us
a simple tree
joined with others
of its kind
to form a jail of shade
holding abandoned orphans,
goblins, and delirious
back-in-the-day wraiths
like granddad
singing songs
passed onto me
along with drinking
until reeling
but never weeping.
What makes this poem stand out from others is the way each image suggests background and story continuing outside the poem. Even something as simple as “well done beef” tells us about the family’s lives, not just the grandmother’s cooking. It’s a poem that repays multiple readings.