She beats her demons into frothy submission
with a wooden spoon and a broom,
and bakes them to keep watch at her gate
like good dogs.
She rakes together the best apple pie
with butter, nutmeg and a spanner.
When she kisses
her grandchildren they laugh forever.
The beans in her garden, full of beans, unzip
themselves and feed the multitudes.
their spurs like matches and roll their own
cigarettes. Angels sneak over to the washing
line and make hammocks of the vanilla
ice cream shirts when she isn’t looking.
Resting on their feathery butts,
just like the rest of us, they’ve left their starry hats
and coats on her black watermelons to show respect.