The Singing Petticoats

From Culdee Street, to my Mother's Mother;
We’d packed our bags to escape the bubbling babbles
that had boiled over, leaving the need to simmer
in the two up and two down in Market Hill.

Three women joined forces, sisters confided to comfort.
Mary, Mona and Maura conquered the coup.
Defended, with us the cousin daughters in tow.
It was the matriarchal song we had not yet sung.

Through the door of a wardrobe the frocks hung.
Like limbless memories, like mindless emptiness,
echoing dancing feet, giggles, and songs
of naughtiness, determination and sorrow.

The skirts of swirly, whirly silks and cottons,
had tiny waists and billowy bottoms.
And then we discovered where the netted petticoats lay.
To find them was to fill, and full the flatness.

How the women laughed when we showed them their past.
Their Baby Sham kisses and cigarette crimes confessed.
We jived, we crooned, we cooed to bygone tales.
The comeback concert: for one night only.