Looking for Monica
Your mother had a sunflower face,
it turned to the light.
You may not want to know
how bold she was -
she danced the Charleston on a stage,
7 years old with the verve of a flapper on black and white film -
out of time with the 70s.
You’d be 27 now -
do you have her cow brown eyes? Her creamy skin?
Of course, they are all yours -
we relinquished any part of you when the papers were signed.
I have her letters from Holloway -
you’d not want to see them.
She told me she’d married in beer
before an altar at midnight -
God was her witness.
They’d been others, she said -
a brown bread baby she’d buried by moonlight.
She’d named you for a friend from Denmark -
oh yes, she’d travelled -
had lived on a kibbutz in Israel,
in a cave – opal hunting – in Australia,
on the streets of London.
She was a wild thing.
Perhaps we’ve met -
passed each other on a street.
You may not want to be found -
but I’m looking.