Call me Ellen.

March 26, 2010

I was made by my mother.
It was her
flour pale and red in Spring
who hauled me through the world
man-handled me into
skirts and scarves
bundled me up safe.

We lived in the green
in the village
you wouldn’t know it
it was quiet
one newsagent, one chippie
I lived with her, until it fell apart
until my childhood collapsed
like a too old paper box.
I left for somewhere else
somewhere new
like the print of a boot
to my slipper.

What did I do to my hand.
Someone grabbed my fist
and held it under boiling water.
What did I do to my hand
I did it on my mother’s stove
It was an accident,
What did I do to my hand.
I did it to myself
It wasn’t a mistake
deliberate as a knife
circling a date.
What did I do.

Look out of the window
Life is hard.
The woman works inside the shop.
The milkman collects his empties up.
.
I sit here in this empty room
high above the city fumes
I let the moon translate my skin
the creases, and the scars
I let the light soothe me

I sit here in the morning
and it’s just the same.
The way the sun makes me glow.
The way the sun makes me gold.
A new thing, a bright thing

I watch myself inside the glass
I watch the city and the sky.
I think of how my mother
use to hold me in the dark.

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