Three pieces

despite everything, each is different
floorboard, conker, kiss

the ragbag of my mother’s sewing basket
tins with hinged lids

no letter is quite like

no day, not even light
an old settee

we want this space, mothers,
from now to death to make
to lay aside your cardigan,
sandals, book
to lie you down finally

you were always too restless
and we have sworn
not to do that

we have worked hard to imagine
the thoughts you carried
pegging out washing
peeling onions
the bundles of dry tears

how would you tell me what’s important?

a look, a letter, your fingers probing mine?

and if it’s a poem
would there be time?

a word and all its connotation

I want to make taps out of bones
to make them porous
let through
blood and water