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.