In search of a mother's love

Serena Bradshaw 3/6/2012:46 PM

Cupboards hiding
Ice-cream cartons, cream cartons, cartons that held stuff
Along with super market bags
Within more bags that transport food
You can no longer eat. It made you sick
And feeds an infestation in my brain.
Your
Stuff
Sticks
Just below my throat.

I'm now recycling the litter of your past:
Objects, tools, appliances to find the woman who left so many scars.
You are the rusted garden rake
Losing its teeth.
You are the ancient dishwasher whose hose conceals
Stagnant water.
You are my Green School Trunk
Piled with the mothballed evening gowns you wore for Do’s
With L’air du Temps, shampoo and set, and lacquered nails.
And him.

You are a decaying frame that grips my door.
You are the dull steel sink, a grimy floor.
You are the cobwebs and the withered plants.
You are. Still.

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