Jane Kirwan
Washing Up
I rinse muesli from the brown bowl
that yesterday contained Haagen Daz
remember buying it in the Mile End Rd,
remnant of the dinner set that left
with a husband. It is my conscience,
easily washed, long serving, heat proof,
but not smooth. There’s a chip
on the edge. I wince as I dry it, sight
of my mother’s grey head
at a window, my walking away. A crack
down the side, my confession to a friend
that I had slept with her lover. Now
she sits at my table with her family
and mine, sips soup from my bowl.
I should throw it away,
buy a dish of fine white porcelain.
Page(s) 18
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- Poetry London (1951)
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