mother

My Mother is a memory,
a tumour in my head.
Abrasive, just like emery,
a demon that I dread.

I’d like to purge with poet’s pen
this memory of mine.
This fiend, fucked up, by Frankenstein,
sends shivers down my spine.

My Mother’s eighty-three or four.
She wrote to me last year.
We'd fought, so feelings still were raw,
And they won’t disappear!

She never really was the same
after my father died.
And damaged goods they need to blame
when all their tears have dried.

My mother is a memory
I'll exorcise with rhyme.
If verse can wipe this memory
I'll ring her up, sometime.