W

ith us they laugh and with us they weep;

And when we're young rock us to sleep;

And all the things we ever had;

Through the good times and through the bad;

My Mother gave these things to me;

And made me what I came to be.



I

sit here on a summers day;

And remember how I used to play;

How she had the time for me;

In between her jobs all three;

How did she find the time to sleep;

With children jobs and house to keep;



A

nd now near forty  and much older;

I've grown wiser and much bolder;

And I don't forget who gave me the courage;

Because all the negatives she discouraged;

And from the slums to a flat in Chelsea;

Who made it happen? 'Was my mother Elsie.

the space at the back of your knees
was always straight; you never bent your
legs and held the air rigorous around them.
compensating for this, your shoulders were forward,
fixing your eyes on a seam in the sidewalk
just a few inches deep but crawling with breath
and some child’s skinned palms

and the gap between your collarbone and rib cage
was a moat. fingers could sink between the lines,
between the countries that  made up the map, folding
and unfolding you, and between the rivers of everything
you contemplated as you slept. a smile crept over your spine.

elbows locked around the town, a fist forming the
peak of the hill that everything washed around. you were
the boundaries, the clumsy first kiss behind the school,
the same bricks every time, and nobody is alone. all the
graffiti holds itself in place with memories.

i could tell you were leaving by the way
you said “love” so many times in so few words
and your eyes were already blurred, looking anywhere but here
and the light had moved its way over you, and you wanted to
leave right then, just to separate your body from its tight
and unrelenting binding you had draped yourself in
all those years ago, being in this place