I never was my mother except
when I distort the truth and tell
strange tales that no one else can fit
in nor recognise nor believe.
I never will be my mother
but when I feel that vice is gripping whispering
‘bereft of friends’
I wonder: is that an echo of her whingeing?
No reflection of my mother except
grey-peppered hair, turgid jaw,
or does my voice harshen when I offer
praises lethally counterpointed with ‘but’?
each other’s greatest disappointment.
Yet darkness floods us both alike.
If we could mention it
there might be hope.