Lynda

[Aish]

for my mother

One day I may return to the place I first remember knowing you,
near as it is to my current dwelling.
Just to stare at the door and wonder if the fireplace still works,
if the spare bedroom now has one bed,
not the bunk and single it did when we were a Young Family.

The memories I have are like a blooper reel of pain,
in which the actors don't fumble and laugh,
but scowl at each other's mistakes.
Hatred filling the silence between lines.
You, mum, hissing at me from your nest on the floor,
holding a textbook I failed to learn,
while dad watched like a sad servant,
a disembodied face hovering over your shoulder.
The ghost and the insect, glimpsed through the doorway,
as I retreated to the room I shared with my older brothers.

There have been times when I've wished I could return to that place,
that time frozen like a lost mountaineer,
and murder you all with four bullets.
Avenging babe among the wreckage.
But I look at you now as you rot among
your faded chairs, stained nick-nakcs, I believe this should be spelled 'knickknacks'.
Betty Boop more rough edged than a car mechanic,
and love blossoms from the soil of hate,
the stinking carcass you've become.

This is mighty painful, Jack.