(for Mum)

A rolling eyeful of

What the heck

Like Real


These, ours

Crisply extended


Marring our youth

Lines before our time

That she smooths away

A practiced charcoal iron

For erasing


We will never know the feeling

Of sweat-chafed thighs blushing

As they brace themselves

For the weight of indulgence

The melancholy swellings that smudges

From our glances

To the small of her back to gather

In rheumatic knots

Always straining in anticipation

Yet by will, unmoved

When we aborted our half-fruits

Already ripened in her cradle

Not knowing how we

Whittle away at her youth

Inexpertly drawing crayola lines

That deepened into age


There are cuts on the second junctures

Of her finger balancing

What is hers and what are ours

In laden grocery-bags we always tip

The scales where she lets us win

Feeling as though she has won

She tells us how she is exhilarated

High on the feeling of being

Half-smothered by our dreams

That are hers to sleep with

When we run behind locked doors

Bricking up with our songs

Our profanities

Our twisted misplaced bitterness

She waits with a breadth of space

Encircled by forearms

Telling us how

We are blameless there