We sneak into the elevator before it closes
us with our cart full of groceries
her with just one cloth bag
I blurt out would you mind
if my son presses the button
but her face doesn’t move
so that I wonder if she is deaf
or sad or just as austere as she looks
her hair grey as stone
her potato-coloured raincoat
her sensible shoes
which is when my son
turns to me and asks
does that lady have a bagina
which had been a topic over breakfast
who does and doesn’t
the mention of certain people
making us both giggle
but in the confines of the elevator
and the brittle twitch of her old cheek
his question turns my brain to mud
and I am trapped in the boiling
heat of awkwardness
then the doors open
and with a voice as light as a moth
and a look that absolves me
she says
would you believe
I left it at home.