*

I was born the mother

you were born the child.

While I was exceedingly sensible,

you were passionately wild.

Wild child,

wild child, a source of white heat

with the life bursting out of you

like it was trying to compete.

I didn’t stand a chance. I stayed.

You played in the             darkest corner of the night

beneath a diminishing moon,

your lipstick neon pink,

like an ice-cream parlour in June.

I told you it was too bright,

you defied me

by adding another layer.

I wished you had taken it off

but it seemed you didn’t care, when

I sat in your chair with no homework done.

How could I analyze a poem,

when I constantly stared at the clock

and asked, ‘When is my child coming home?’

You stayed.           I prayed that I could someday

understand this tortuous role reversal,

but I still made you tea, put you to bed

and washed your underwear in Persil.

You died.

I cried because a mother should never have

to bury a child.

*

Biography