Diary

At the door of this quiet room
Your bedroom, holding all that you are
In trust,

There is an, almost, holy hush
But for the unexpected flesh pink –
Such a mistake – a pigs ear.

You wouldn’t know this dark woman -
your mother, slipping sly into your room
into the air of you, any more than she knows you,

Who sees it, pretending not to,
Wedged between bed and wall
Black against pink, a bible in a boudoir.

First, she sits on the single bed edge
Thinks of all that has been lost.
The air full of absence.

Breathes in carefully, not too much,
It’s your air,
And remembers her own fifteenth year

Sleek as a seal in black regulation
Costume and cap, pushing in
And out of the cold sea, against Mother’s fears

Do it, her hand shoots out, of it’s own volition
Pain-twisted fingers snatch the book
Bring it to view.

Stealing a gasp of your precious air
She opens it to the last entry
Your birthday - October 30th 1966,

Looks to the white square of light
Mouths a prayer
For escape, for rescue

Eyes snapping to the very line that
Starts - ‘my mother’,
Remembers too late

What her own mother always said,
Amongst other frightening proverbs,
What you don’t know can’t hurt you.