Words about Mother

There are many rooms in her house.
Some of them contain men who can fly.
She phones them from the kitchen on a mobile;
she asks, “Do you want a cup of tea?”

She whisks things in a bowl, spins all her clothes,
presses buttons discriminately.
She takes flowers to the church and disappears;
sometimes we have lost her for days.

She creates a story from coloured crosses,
constructs soft cushions during eclipses,
bakes spells in the oven. Her chocolate cake
transforms the eater into a sponge.

Foreign professors visit the house
(we think they came down the secret stairs).
Someone has given her postcards and poems
and filled the freezer with blackberries.

There are words on the fridge that may not be hers.

Helena Nelson

If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear from you.

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