She never lost her mind, my mother

She never lost her mind, 

my mother. 

A well-born, softly - spoken woman

who had quite good French

and knew her Shakespeare. 

She never shouted, that I can recall, 

but she would say my formal name:

"Patricia" 

Using all three syllables 

which struck cold against my soul

like a clapper

striking an ancient tenor bell. 

Yes, that was enough to tell

me I was in for it now, 

though 'it' was always nothing really. 

Occasionally I'd get the “cod's eye”

a sideways, chilly, glassy glance,

causing me to immediately find

my shoes absolutely fascinating. 

I think I was a good kid: quiet,

always secretly feeding the skinny neighbourhood dogs

because we didn't have one. 

I was happy with my books and records

and my big, deep, unexpressed thoughts

about death and what might be after that. 

Sometimes, in my early teens,

my mother would fix me with her warm, wolf-blue eyes

and say, "what's up? You ok?" 

"I'm gay!"

I wouldn't say. 

I'm fine, I would say. 

Just thinking. 

OK. She would say, uncertainly, 

knowing there was something. 

I would smile reassuringly 

but I would want to

climb upon her lap

put my arms around her neck 

and say:

(Oh mother of my flesh, you built the container of my soul, 

you could be my Mother Confessor, 

but that's incompatible with love) 

It's just that I'm an unexploded bomb. 

You're living with a landmine, 

I'm not fine. 

Or rather, I think I am fine, 

it's just that, as Sappho wrote:

"Sweet mother, I cannot weave, 

slender Aphrodite has overcome me

with longing for a girl." 

It’s just that I'm flammable.

I'm full of love, and worse - unbridled lust. 

It hurts, this desire. I'm catching fire.  

I might blow this house to dust. 

I wouldn't climb upon her lap.

I wouldn't say these words. 

I would smile and return to my room, to being a quiet, shy kid, 

with my books

and records, 

and an illicit dog

under the bed

who I would feed with scraps

and who I really loved. 

(August 13th, 2020)