(By Sil, the 15th of May, 2011, London)
“But I didn’t choose to be”
A refrain to my mother
Carolled spitefully
By a whinging, raging child:
“So why did you have me?”
A mistake
Still counts as a choice
It’s a bird deaf
To the effect
Of its own trilling voice
Side-by-side
In matching holiday skirts
She said: “You’re part of me”.
Later,
Her skirt left on the beach
Flailing in the wind
Like the parachute crown
Of a born-again dandelion
The insistent,
Unbearable itch
In my chest
Grasping that she could feel whole
Without me
For attempting a climb
Would the hiker leave something
As vital as a limb behind?
Left to the comfort of thumbs:
One rubbing the velvety bottom
Of Tom-Tom
The other - a fool’s breast
To suckle on with a sore gum
Five, eighteen, twenty-five
Thirty-one
Every birthday marks
The growing jaw of separation
Between that mother and this child
And a contradiction:
I didn’t choose to be
Yet I don’t stop counting.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
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