Mother and child.

 

By Maisie Chilton

 

 

There is a squeeze

around my shoulders

and I am

back

In the place where

the air hangs heavy

around my ankles, and

the great walls crush.

My home detention bracelet is

gold plated and moulded

perfectly

to follow the curves of my abdomen.

 

Here is the tomb

you built, to mourn you in

and I am

caretaker of the garden, playing

hopscotch

in glassy air, and

bringing roses to your death-bed.

 

There is a squeeze,

this is the execution.

Dead heads fall,

withering

In their papery fading skins.

 

Snip their little necks

make room for

new growth.

 

Here we are,

treading our limbs, in the

glassy black air

handles bending

too far backwards

into themselves.

Violent pangs of grief rush

index finger.

A corporal mortification.

You’ve achieved sanctification

of the highest order.

 

I always go

to the same place

when I look for you,

you are never there.

You left, and

took all of gravity

with you

left us with

nothing but the dust

gathers on your

frozen nightstand

and in the vase of your body

and on the fading lilac

nightgown

with its

childhood nightmares

threaded into the seams

rotting at the bottom

of the cupboard

(I find it when I dig.)

disintegrates with

the rest of us, and

the clarity of feeling

of what it is,

to miss you. 

 

Wallow down in the

blackening bath

each squeeze causes the

dry fingers to bleed.

 

There is a squeeze, and I

clutch the hollow, 

ceramic and ash

against my chest

rock these

Imitation hips of yours

the way you would have.

Mother and child.