(in progress..)

February 18, 2011

When my mother comes to visit, she brings my dad
and a pack of twelve quilted Andrex toilet tissues,
half a pack of Weetabix – and since she has
started cutting down on dairy products,
a carton of rice milk. My mother brings
Lancome samples she got from Boots:
white tubes inside of miniature packages
smaller than match boxes –
a tote bag she got as a free gift:
two purchases or more
from Christian Dior –
she saved for the foundation
with her pension and housekeeping.
When I move into my flat,
my mother brings me a plant,
she brings me a card:
two mice in tiny clothes
‘Good Luck in Your New Home’,
when I get my degree
a card from them both,
when he leaves the room
a twenty pound note:
‘don’t tell your dad’.
My mother brings the mail
still coming to their bungalow:
letters from a bank,
records like an echo,
living in the past.
She brings me a jar
of thick cut
orange marmalade,
bought from the women
that lives round the corner,
a cut out coupon
from Woman’s Weekly.

I bring my mother a cup of tea:
White porcelain, pink roses,
on a tiny tray, with a tiny spoon,
no sugar, a little milk.

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