Grande Femme by Ellen de Vries

I went home,
but I’d grown to outsize the furniture.

My fingers were even longer
than my mother’s hands.

Like perspective had misjudged me
or distance itself.

Mother cried a little,
You’ve grown she said.

I bent myself into an old chair;
the room was clean, ready for me,

but I stayed the night there like a guest;
as if I was some other landscape’s child.

About the Author

Ellen de Vries was born in Belfast to a Northern Irish mother and a Dutch father. She hopes to settle in Brighton in the UK, having lived in many countries, including Morocco, Yemen, the Czech Republic, and Romania. Her work draws on these experiences, not as a traveller, but as a perpetual temporary resident. To find out more about Ellen’s various publications and poetry blog, visit her online at www.ellendevries.org

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