27 March 2012
22 March 2012
18 March 2012
17 March 2012
The Invisible Mender (My First Mother)
I'm sewing on new buttons
to this washed silk shirt.
Mother of pearl,
I chose them carefully.
In the haberdashers on Chepstow Place
I turned a boxful over
one by one,
searching for the backs with flaws:
those blemished green or pink or aubergine,
small birth marks on the creamy shell.
These afternoons are short,
the sunlight buried after three or four,
sap in the cold earth.
The trees are bare.
I'm six days late.
My right breast aches so
when I bend to catch a fallen button
that strays across the floor.
there'll be blood on my hands.
Thirty-seven years ago you sat in poor light
and sewed your time away,
But I'm no good at this:
a peony of blood gathers on my thumb, falls
then widens on the shirt like a tiny, opening mouth.
I think of you like this —
as darkness comes,
as the window that I can't see through
is veiled with mist
which turns to condensation
slipping down tall panes of glass,
a mirror to the rain outside —
and I know that I'll not know
if you still are mending in the failing light,
or if your hands (as small as mine)
lie still now, clasped together, underground.
16 March 2012
15 March 2012
13 March 2012
12 March 2012
07 March 2012
03 March 2012
"Before you can blame an individual for their choices, you have to make sure they have the same choices as everyone else."
Bix , the fanatic cook.