Mother was ordinary until classmates
staring at her
on Speech Day squealed: Your mum’s
her face becoming your own
status symbol to rival
e-type jags and mansions.
But as men gawped at her in the
your silent adolescent scream Look
at me too!
Other times, catching your own breath
her moss-agate eyes that changed
colour with her moods.
Paparazzi, snapping as she swept
knew she should be model, actress or
Yet her ambition was to ‘look out
her kitchen window
and see a reliable husband digging
in his garden.’
But he could not imagine your mother
stooping to vacuum,
so she drew only prospectors and connoisseurs
who licking their lips as if undressing Marilyn
soon found they were fucking Doris Day and left.
Proving to friends that ‘Mother was a
you present a solitary portrait 6 by
taken in middle age to celebrate her
that is disfigured by melancholy.
If you have any comments on
this poem, Fiona Sinclair would
be pleased to hear from you.