Grace

In the fancy basement food hall,

I slide by well-healed women

And men in anxious suits,

Lose myself in bespoke aisles

Of pickles and plum pudding,

Marzipan, maraschino cherries,

Slabs of date and fig,

Walnuts and dried fruit and

Stashes of exotic chocolate,

Searching for that one,

White-iced rarity of

An English Christmas fruit cake,

And realize, astonished,

That I am looking for 

my Mother.