Out of memory

A poem

After thirteen, 
my mother didn’t see her father.
I never met my grandfather.

Grief is a plastic sweet wrapper
blowing about somewhere in West Wales.

Near a ruined abbey
close to the border,
we crossed the river three times
to get to school
in another country—
each bridge a construct.

My Welsh teacher was often absent.
I learned how to pass notes
under tables to a crush.

I never learned to say I love you.
I got as far as
Dwi'n hoffi sglodion
which is one way to survive.

My father drove me to see friends
but I didn’t like to ask—

I drank until I felt home,
till all the trees merged
into a single murky texture.

At seventeen, I passed my test.

Repeatedly woken
by morning knocking 
on the car window.

Laddered tights.

A dead bird—
a sky glitch.

Passing and succeeding
squabbled over meaning.

Sometimes, I hear Welsh bands on the radio
and expect to understand.

The river was tidal.