A Song for Mother
She ground her teeth,
watching me, unshakable, ready,
each word a reddened scar across my
soft white skin. Bleeding salty tears
and good intentions,
emptying my childhood treasures
carelessly to the orange carpet.
Silent then, she shook back her
dark hair, reddish in the
evening sun. Dancing leaf patterns
stitched her mind together, raw
threads reflecting that other time.
Each year clicked roughly into place
and burned softly at our feet.
I didn’t notice her turn grey, it happened
while I slept in daydreams and doorways;
her voice continued not to reach me. I
waited ‘til her mouth stopped moving
and left; behind me a limestone
woman, her colour seeped into a faded
orange carpet and I wept a song.
Anne Elizabeth Bevan