Having Eaten the Plums

Mamma swings like Chaplin

on her back foot; imagines herself mighty,

 

illicit under lampposts, dreamer

in a leopard-printed euphoria singing black and white.

 

Chuckles. They tell her she’s too loud, off-beat

peeling garlic with a growing thumbnail, dropping wings

 

in marinade, not noticing one empty

buttonhole, two half-sliced aubergines, three, four

 

incisions ‘round her kidney. Maybe if she dyed her hairline,

swapped her pouch for a palette of stilletos, they’d  not.

 

Restabilising ex-balletic toes, she smothers her wings

and leaves them in the fridge, forgiven.

 

 

 

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