Mother's Day

I have always hated Mother’s Day - as an ungrateful child and a guilty mother - and this poem was born out of that. I have also just said goodbye to young adult-children after Christmas and it seems very relevant.

I’m still working my way round children as visitors - it’s very confusing. Should I be treating them like prodigal children, celebrating their every second with me - or resuming nagginess about the takeover of the kitchen counters, the stealing of tweezers and scattering of shoes - for old time (and sanity’s) sake! 

I think and hope they prefer the latter. Whatever - they are far lovelier than I was at the same age - and indeed it is child-me, not them, who stars as the hobgoblins in this poem.

Rachel Burrows

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Mother’s Day

Hobgoblins 

dig their heels in.

Then, with groans equalling the ones that expelled them,

they comply with orders.

The vacuumed-one 

takes ankles

and sucks up socks -

spiteful revenge for abandonment.

The dog guards its tail and slinks upstairs.

The aproned-one drops a plate

and rolls its eyes,

then stares at the pieces

as it waits for them to move.

The last-one dries,

and steps through the shards,

a tea-towelled martyr

who didn’t ask to be born.

They are united for once

in their seething indignance.

Calendar-captives,

they are tortured by ritual,

and shocked by the audacity

of their toasted mother 

who lies in bed 

with her dishwater-tea.