Saying Grace.

Mann, Chris

Saying Grace

   Wine-glass in hand, I look across the table.
      The young are at the stove, heaping their plates
   with mutton goulash, rice and bright green peas.
      Far off inside me, my shades start murmuring.

   'Eat up!' My grandmother's scolding voice.
      'We had to scrimp and scrape for every penny,
   I'm not, I'm not going to let you leave the table
      until you've finished every scrap on your plate.'

   Then my mother. 'After the war I'd find an apple
      behind a cushion, then mouldy bread in a drawer.
   I said nothing. Your father had lain for months,
      hiding in a field, half starved to death in Italy.'

   And then an uncle. 'After the blitz nobody knew
      when next they'd eat. I found an egg in a gutter,
   just dropped and left there, so I scraped it up
      and carried it home wobbling in a cabbage leaf.'

   Then Dumi at my Durban gate, talking politics
      in that ironic Zulu of his when sanctions started
   and factories laid off staff. 'How will that help?
      My young tonight will eat hot water, as before.'

   Last a friend, after visiting relatives in Harare.
      'The suburbs had no electricity, day or night.
   The taps were dry and when I opened the fridge
      nothing, nothing except a small grey lemon.'

   Voices, laughter and then I hear, 'Hey, dad,
      food's getting cold!' How can I say where I've been?
   I look at the faces around the table, at the hands
      outstretched, the rice that's gleaming on my plate

   and say into the silence, Benedictus, benedicate