By | 1 May 2019

Your face is a blur,
you are out of the picture
I am in my mother’s arms,
my twin brother in her other

the slumped red tomato
is defeated, bleeding seeds
like my mother’s tears,
as it slides down the front

of her pink flowered
dressing gown,
and I whisper,
touching her face

(did it hurt?)
through her tears she says no
the plate didn’t hit me
it lies unbroken on the carpet

slimed with the traces
of your uneaten dinner
I lay my cheek against her chest
and do not forget do not forget do not forget.

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