Carapace

Like papier-mâché,
age has layered itself
upon her;
stilling the fingers
in which knitting needles
used to fly;
adding depth to wrinkles,
and confusion.

Like papier-mâché,
some of the layers
have mushed together,
so time shifts
seventy years
over the course
of two sentences.

Like papier-mâché
there are odd cracks
and the occasional bubble
that something will suddenly
break through,
revealing the truth of her
beneath.

When I show her the charm bracelet,
she reaches out,
touching the panniered donkey.
‘He came from Dubrovnik…’