Mr D.

by Elaine Edwards

Lasciviously eyeing my mother,
he insinuated himself into our home.
Present at mealtimes, bedtime, playtime, family time,
he finally had his wicked way
with her.
His (and her) absence was,
in the end,
a relief.

But, licking filthy lips,
he invited himself again,
one New Years Eve,
to sweet talk Grandad.

Auntie Noeline he seduced
in one night.
She was a spinster and
susceptible.

For a decade he lurked
near the fireplace,
grabbing all chances to
sidle into the bedrooms
and into the beds.
We drove him away.
Screamed abuse,
drew weapons: knives and rays;
chanted incantations, waved smoke and Bibles.

He fled.

Now he’s back, grown old,
carrion breath, gnarled hands;
making a play for Jenny.
She’s given him the finger,
pelted him with rotten eggs.
He’s cowering.

Soon he’ll be gone

Then how we’ll laugh
when we see him shambling away,
that disgusting old roué,
Mister Death.

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