The Bowl
Domestic, the memories of mothers.
Forget the faded photo of a girl
On horseback, the wedding shots –
I wasn’t there, and I have moved
Beyond the want of rivalry.
While Dad was always “in his shed”
Or “out the back somewhere”,
You could be found in the kitchen.
We knew what day it was by what we ate.
Yet now I understand why on some days
You refused to cook, cried, threw cutlery,
And called us a “pack of bastards”
If we answered or didn’t answer back.
Your hysteria took root in the word.
When I visit now it’s to find you
On a cold and sunless afternoon
Stooped over the stove ladling soup;
The warmth from the hotplate
Holding you for a moment
Before you turn to show your face…
I take the bowl you offer,
The plate of buttered bread.
