What Time is it, Mister Wolf?
Out of the thicket,
Grandma comes each morning,
brambles in her hair and dress all creased.
She says she’s been collecting eggs,
breaks one into the old black pan with a sizzle of fried bread.
When she’s done her chores –
sweeping out spiders from corners,
black-leading the grate,
cleaning my shoes with spit –
she puts the dinner on.
It’s chicken today; I’d heard the squawking
while I brushed my teeth.
Then, if I ask politely,
we’ll play Black Pudding or
What Time Is It, Mister Wolf?
I don’t mind if she wins, grabs me,
hugs me close and I can smell something tasty
on her apron.
Afternoons, she goes upstairs for a nap.
I followed her once.
Such huffing and puffing
from the big saggy bed.
I saw long pointed ears on the pillow,
a tail poking from under the eiderdown,
Grandma’s fingers running like milk
through thick black fur.
Jennifer Copley
