Days

 

 

In the morning she was mother again,

breakfasting gaily on the remaining quarter bottle,

whilst you trekked to ‘the shop’

like a disgruntled wine waiter sent to distant cellars.

Don’t desert me held you hostage in the kitchen,

listening, as she worried at the past, for the first slouched words

that made you want to slap her.

By early afternoon she swayed to the drink’s rhythm,

fancying a bowl of instant mash with marmite

that knocked her out like a boxer’s punch.

‘The lodger’ took the second watch.

As she tallied each empty with a triumphant

That’s another one he observed her with

gothic intentions over cigarettes and tea,

until in the early hours there were oaths and blows.

Rescue arrived in the dark miracle of a lump.

Dismissing medical interference in her body’s plans,

your mother resolutely accepted the exit cancer offered.