Forgotten Ground Regained
Ancestor Doors
The blade of my father’s first letter knife;cheap plastic grip, but intact for all that.The lip of the lid of the button boxthat lived its life in my grandmother’s flat.The tarnished and scratched silver tablespoonthat doled out the dog’s rank food from its tin.The cracked maroon covers of Tennyson,a child’s rogue practice at writing within.Those worn turns of phrase and words from the pastcreeping in through the cracks in a tired tongue.The memory ache in the heart and fleshthat yearns for bed when soft church bells are rung.These are the shapes of the ancestor doors.My ancestors. What are the shapes of yours?
Published in Forgotten Ground Regained: A Quarterly Journal of Alliterative Verse, New Series, Issue 6, Spring, 2025.
Copyright © Liz Kendall, 2024
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