My Mother’s Mattress
Upstairs, in the heat, beside the handkerchiefs,
my mother’s navy-blue horsehair mattress
still, although it’s August, smells of damp,
of horses in the hush of damp forests,
of Spassky, still a child, playing chess
all day long, with nobody, in silence –
Spassky, whose seductive ingenuity
my mother has no need to understand.
Eerie Bittern
The eerie bittern – this may sound unfair –
spends her days pretending to be reeds
and people think she’s sulking, but she’s not,
she’s like my mother: sunlight gives her headaches.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.