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Harriet Torr

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My Mum The Cleaner

She is polishing a hole
through the statue of Jesus
so she can get through to the other side
to watch the clouds while away the time,
fanning herself with a feather duster
and not notice her watch clamouring
that this or that needs to be done.

Sometimes, when polishing the frames
in the high art gallery
she catches a wink from an old master
weighing her up;
not seeing her torn stocking;
and the varicoused vein,
peeping out like a grape from its vine.

But it’s up with his easel, he’s out to catch her
to stuff her image into a flower
or translate her everyday self
into the pastel renaissance of a saturday night;
tucked in a carpeted corner where she sees herself
in the amber of his freshly drawn pint,
in pewter, not glass she notes.

He talks. She listens. Nothing’s changed,
as she fades into the unfathomable dark of his eye.
And soon she is the mouse that slides in and out
of a silent room at night, stealing the jewels
of breadcrumbs, succulent shimmering white
touched up by the moon’s sabbatical light; 
in the great floor of her kitchen.

 

Page(s) 52

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