He calls his mum a butterfly
as its larvae hatch alone and
he’s scared of being abandoned,
but she can’t hear the rebuke;
Adding gaudy eye-spots to false
antennae lashes, dusty and taut.
We’ll mow the hours down
like flowers tomorrow, she swears.
New snags nestle in her dress
when he pushes her away;
since kisses signify goodbye;
no promise can gratify.
Later she will stroke his face,
since she grasps how
the guarded thorn speaks;
and with painstaking care
kiss his forehead as he sleeps.
First published in Obsessed With Pipework issue No 59