Coral Hull: Poetry: William's Mongrels: My Mother Is Crying In The Furniture

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: WILLIAM'S MONGRELS
MY MOTHER IS CRYING IN THE FURNITURE

by now half her face is black from the
black vinyl lounge/ in summer we stick
to its cushions & crumbs, hair & bobby
pins fall down into the cracks & stick/
& the surface sticks hard to my legs &
grey sweat trickles down into the cracks
behind my knees/ my mother is stuck on
its blackness, its sickness/ her slim
ankles swollen/ her birth stretch marks
which she has covered/ now uncovered/
& blue veins retaining the blue fluid
sucked up through the blue carpet/

when my precious mother cries there is
an effort from inside/ a gradual hiccup
towards the white bordered ceiling/ now
dimmed to cream by my father's smoking/
& when the spiked wall clock tilts there
is a whiteness behind it & her weeping/
she will never reach the white clouds
outside beyond the ceiling/ instead she
is drawn mysteriously back down into
the blue carpet/
                       i stand before her/
a smaller replica of my father/ & she
turns & looks straight past me/ first
a warning from the facial skin/ the
lips pursing together like fruit drying/
my mother is crying in the furniture/
& a flash of rage never to surface is
dying back down inside her/ i'm standing
in my backyard sandpit/ has she finally
locked me out?/
                       i cry out like a three
year old/ & the wind carries it around
our house/ into the exterior's storming/
& when the first huge drops fall she is
covered/ trembling quietly into her hands/
i know her ring, her eternity, her delicate
bones/ i bring in my toddler's step & my
empty bucket for her tears/ & the plastic
bucket is filling & breaking/ & its white
handle twists into my fingers & snaps off/

as the first huge drops smash into oceans
of blue carpets/ there is a downfall/ i hear
her sobbing from the bedroom/ & when
she has stopped the wood from her wardrobe
holds tension/ & the wood from her dressing
table holds tension/ i am lying beneath my
cot with my plastic spade/ breathing the
blue fluff in/ in my bedroom the carpet is
blue/ & dark rain pelts against the door
of her living/ i cannot stop my mother
from crying

    

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