The porridge pot is not magic.
It feeds but leaves a glutinous mess,
which is hard to shift,
You sit in front of your bowl,
not wishing to wake.
You spoon more and more,
honey into the bowl.
It slides and runs,
You stir me up.
You demand more sugar,
More sugar you demand,
Sugar and spice and all things nice thats what little boys are made of.
And what are mums made of ?
Slugs and snails and laundry piles,
Red of lipstick running across lips,
smudging front teeth,
A squirt of perfume
Pants tucked up in skirt,
Half brushed mind,
A list of promises to others,
I am no madonna,
I am no whore,
I am not wholesome and good,
I am milk on the turn,
I am a failure,
I am an entry point,
I am a door,
I am not selfless,
I have found no balance,
See those sexy shoes I want to wear them.
We live together in a photograph of time,
I tell you that I love you as I leave you in the classroom,
You show me your painting of an astronaut smiling,
I know that you can’t always tell me,
I know that you need to hate me,
I am left to pick up the pants the stories to sweep the crumbs from the table,
I must not become a cliche, I am not that mother,
I feel your fear,
I feel your anger,
I feel your frustration,
I feel your sadness,
I feel your rejection,
I feel your vulnerability,
I can not contain it all.
I am two eyes watching you,
Two breasts that have fed you,
A womb that has grown you,
A mind that opens and denies you,
A voice to read you a story,
A warm body to cling to at night,
A person to shout at when you are upset,
and you did.
You roared so loud in my ear that I shuddered with fear.
I sometimes welcome your interruptions,
I sometimes love you holding the ends of my dress,
I sometimes hate this, and want to be alone,
I want you to let go,
I am wanting to be some of what I was before,
I hoover up the dust,
I bake a lemon cake,
all yellow, the fat melts in the bowl as I add the juice.
All bitter and sweet.
It rises well in the oven.
The cake cries as I cut it up and dish it out on fancy plates,
That cheer my heart,
I feed it to the family,
I don’t want to play mother,
I sip tea,
I polish your shoes,
You enjoy the shine,
I catch myself in a mirror,
How can anything be different ?
How can it be changed ?
Sometimes there is nothing but the light from the sun.
My feet treading the earth.
Past the sure start nursery.
Past the playgroup in the park where I supped super strong coffee to shake me awake, cut toast and fruit and filled plastic beakers with juice to feed the many small ones, shared stories and muddled through weeks of caring.
Pramless and without your hand in mine,
Last week you said “boo boo” as you woke,
If I squeeze my nipples hard a little bit of milk still forms,
a small tear.
There is the waiting.
I am waiting for the snow, the winter and the cold but it does not arrive.
The snow drops have pushed up through the earth and the crocuses are following.
Sometimes there is nothing.
I sit back, I watch, I wait,
I wash your clothes, I lift you from your sleep and place clothes around your body, I make you food, I encourage you to eat, I run your bath, blow bubbles, get annoyed when you will not brush your teeth, read you stories in bed from books and our imaginations, I place my arm around your body.
I stare up at the moonlight, open my heart, dream,
In the early morning I hear you breath and feel your warmth next to me.