A poem by Joanna Grigg

Traditional Crafts in Rural Areas
by Joanna Grigg

If it was messy, like he’d put a gun
to his head, or something
involving knives, they’d shut me out.
The hall was dark, no windows,
the oak of panelled doors
and quiet sounds coming
under, through.

Otherwise they’d call me in
to watch as they weighted eyes,
folded arms across chest
and I heard the words, soft
and clear as prayers, telling him
that a good husband deserved a-laying
and to me, how.
(published in The North issue 47)
Many of Joanna Grigg’s poems have been published in magazines and anthologies. She runs the Brighton Stanza of the Poetry Society, works as an HE consultant and lecturer, and has 13 non-fiction books and many other pieces to her name. Note: Sad to report that shortly after this poem was posted, Joanna Grigg died from cancer. RIP.