Anne Born
Leavings
I have her leavings
on my plate. Scraps:
sucked bones of opinions,
a stain of prejudice
time’s dishwasher
can’t sluice away,
they won’t be rinse-aided.
She’s left a blind spot
in the corner of my eye.
I can’t see through it
and bits of her vision
swim as floaters across my pupil.
I’m lumbered
with her worn red velvet
elephant pincushion
the pins have rusted in.
Her Honiton lace hankies
are yellow,
her glass and china chipped.
I want freedom
but she hangs on,
ties me up
in a net of veins.
Which I shall leave, a snare,
to my daughter.
Page(s) 31
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