My mother left my father
to become a real woman
she moved to an island rolling
with green hills, where feral wolves devour
her chickens in the Scottish Primrose
she is one
of five hundred and sixty-eight
he lives in a nice part of Deptford
in a house filled with smoke
and disheveled rolling papers
wrinkled with liquor
he is a cliche old man
who keeps his pistol loaded
while the stove is cold
