Mr Morgenstern
He lives in the basement flat downstairs,
ready to babysit whenever she calls for
him. He has a propensity for black knitwear,
and his hobbies leave his hands smelling of sulphur.
Her children love him; he comes and teaches
the boys the art of anatomy, presenting to them,
with divine patience, the scars left behind by the stitches
they put in him after he fell from the heavens;
they trace gently over where the raised flesh is,
naming parts. The girls sit on his knee and listen rapt
to stories of snow-skinned, blood-lipped princesses
tempted by succulent fruits, who never fail to attract
the happiest of happily ever afters. It seems that
he has the best of intentions; he calls the little ones
“angels”, laughing at their innocence – but he stares at
their mother with eyes that look nothing like the Son’s.
He lives in the basement flat downstairs,
ready to babysit whenever she calls for
him. He has a propensity for black knitwear,
and his hobbies leave his hands smelling of sulphur.
Her children love him; he comes and teaches
the boys the art of anatomy, presenting to them,
with divine patience, the scars left behind by the stitches
they put in him after he fell from the heavens;
they trace gently over where the raised flesh is,
naming parts. The girls sit on his knee and listen rapt
to stories of snow-skinned, blood-lipped princesses
tempted by succulent fruits, who never fail to attract
the happiest of happily ever afters. It seems that
he has the best of intentions; he calls the little ones
“angels”, laughing at their innocence – but he stares at
their mother with eyes that look nothing like the Son’s.