The Two Witches  Laura Kolb

 

 

london rises like smoke
from a chestnut cart
pushed by a granny in thick boots
 
she wraps a handful
in a newspaper cone
she smiles when i try to pay
 
munching
i wander
munching
i remember her:
 
her husband's to aleppo gone,
master of the tiger.

 
the newspaper smudges my hands like coal
for weeks i can't wash it out
i am not frantic, only sinking:
i know this story.
 
finally after many scrubbings i can just about make out what it says.