My Grandma left my uncle in the butchers

She got him back.
His pram was sitting neatly
in front of the display of chops.
Not to worry, the butcher said.
We knew you’d return.
And she did, her heart punching her chest,
sweat beads gathering like customer eyes
looking at livers and kidneys,
her calf muscles tender and panicked.
I feel my skin most days
looking for things I should be doing,
forgetting the things I believe,
wondering when it will fall off
my bones and drag my memory
to the floor.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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