Hugh Clarke

Pantoum with dead kittens

Yes, a frail metal sound. My mother coming home
to Aunt Mary drowning kittens in a bucket –
her brother herding her to innocence inside.
Of course, she never liked cats,

Aunt Mary – drowning kittens in a bucket
came naturally. My mother hated Heaney
and, of course, she grew to like cats.
As she got older, her love of dead things

came naturally, but my mother hated Heaney,
his words too close to home. Kittens drowning, brothers dying.
As she got older, her love of dead things
scratched at her chest like a drunk unlocking the door

to home. Kittens drowned, brothers dead.
The innocence her brother had herded inside
scratched at her chest. A drunk unlocking the door,
a frail metal sound; my mother coming home.

Hugh wrote this about his poem:

Traumatic memories have a knack of showing up in unexpected ways throughout your life, repeating on you, twisting meaning and impact by appearing somewhere new and somehow differently. The pantoum is a form that does something similar.