A Mother and a Daughter
On birthdays to come weŽd trigger time.
I, denied the house by your father;
you, in pleated skirt like a widowŽs weeds,
too respectful of a husbandŽs anger,
preferring to wait.
IŽd sneak in the backway,
or wait by a tree.
YouŽd come with your sister for cover
and as we kiss IŽll see again
your youngest suck at the nipple.
Your son is the age that you were then,
so is your hair and your skin,
and the swing of your hips
on the day you were married
at just nineteen.
The tree has been felled
and its ashes are cold.
We stand on the leaves beneath which we had stood,
our only solution, to use time as a trigger.
Mike
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