Diary
At the door of this quiet room Your bedroom, holding all that you are In trust, There is an, almost, holy hush But for the unexpected flesh pink – Such a mistake – a pigs ear. You wouldn’t know this dark woman - your mother, slipping sly into your room into the air of you, any more than she knows you, Who sees it, pretending not to, Wedged between bed and wall Black against pink, a bible in a boudoir. First, she sits on the single bed edge Thinks of all that has been lost. The air full of absence. Breathes in carefully, not too much, It’s your air, And remembers her own fifteenth year Sleek as a seal in black regulation Costume and cap, pushing in And out of the cold sea, against Mother’s fears Do it, her hand shoots out, of it’s own volition Pain-twisted fingers snatch the book Bring it to view. Stealing a gasp of your precious air She opens it to the last entry Your birthday - October 30th 1966, Looks to the white square of light Mouths a prayer For escape, for rescue Eyes snapping to the very line that Starts - ‘my mother’, Remembers too late What her own mother always said, Amongst other frightening proverbs, What you don’t know can’t hurt you.