A poem for Mothering Sunday

[kbk]

Went to pub with edithmatilda and nickthewaster for a poetry reading/Open Mic night. I went up and read. It was scary. But the intent of the poem was to scare the people listening, and I think I succeeded, at least a little.

Here is the poem, which is a little rough, but is for Mother's Day and thus timely.



Still, on the sill of the bathroom window
Is a baby hairbrush, little and soft.
It used to belong to my mother.

The chemo caused her hair to fall out.

The steroids left her senile at the age of forty-nine -
One day she lost sixteen years,
And waited for me to be born.

There's a High Calcium Cookbook in the kitchen
Wedged between Delia and the Beros
The cancer gnawed on her bones,
Thinned her blood.
Killed her.

I think of her, sometimes.
How she faded, inch by painful inch,
Then drifted away in days of gentle sleep.

I think of her, almost five years ash,
In a grave marked only
With her parents' names.

Comments

[turtlebat.livejournal.com]

You're more eloquent than I am.

Possibly out of place, but *hug* for the crappiness of mothering sunday et al...

[kbk]

Thank you.

At least after tomorrow there won't be those signs in all the card shops etc.