Mother

[heslopian]

I must have been your height by then.
but I look up at you in dreams
of the pie and mash shop

before the cigarette ban,
as I prodded my meal
and you smiled wryly,

a mockery of knowing
you'd long perfected,
blowing out smoke like a confidant kid.

an oval of eel
congealed in a bowl
beside you.

'try it' you said,
so I did,
trusting the woman

who'd burned my hands
when I was an infant,
trusting you more than my sensible dad,

who'd raised me.
the eel was bad, but I didn't blame you.
that long afternoon

when we walked to Clacton,
high on our reunion,
you calling me "son" to all the cashiers,

me thinking of you as my only parent,
having taken our trays to the table we'd picked,
all we could do is smile like dolls.
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