3 poems from Mum & Dad
The day has
started badly. Dad has cut himself on a packet of quinoa.
One of the sons drops by and places an apple on the table, declaring it to be an artwork.
‘Things have only the meaning we give to them,’ declares dad, peering into the toaster, ‘and this has no meaning at all.’
‘They say there is a galleon at the bottom of the ditch,’ says one of the sons, polishing the apple on his smock, ‘near the meteorological station, where the horse is.’
One of the sons, two of the sons…is it even possible to tell the sons apart, unless they are wearing their hats?
‘One day,’ confides one of the sons, polishing the apple on his smock, ‘I will rescue the princess who is trapped there within a bubble. We will marry and live in a palace or a bungalow.’
Mum is in the laboratory distilling a compound that will melt stubborn fat and slow down time.
Someone has to
put a stop to all this nonsense.
Dad is having trouble with several things, like his digital watch and his sense of reality.
A family of goats negotiates the precipice, then disappears into the hotel foyer.
Dad has bent so much to circumstance, it’s unlikely he will ever straighten.
Dad is sad, sad as a silent piano, sad as a dolphin, sad as a bag of lasagne.
Old food, grave goods, cheese and beans. Dad’s brain is wired on dopamine and guilt.
‘Perhaps,’ says Dad, ‘being aware of what you are makes it acceptable for you to be it.’
‘It doesn’t,’
says Mum, pushing the gondola out from the jetty, ‘It really doesn’t.’
‘This was my father’s cheeseboard,’ Dad tells one of the sons, just in from the thicket, ‘and one day it will be your cheeseboard. However, please note, no cheese will be provided.’
‘Terms and conditions,’ trills Mum, eating marzipan.
We are under glass, under miles of salt water, cigarettes in carpeted saloons, bread and margarine whatever the hour.
This was an indifferent season, when we found a dog and painted it white. There were rooms above this room and all of them were empty.
There were
tiny scratches on the draining board.
The scores
were kept in a yellow book.
The peaches
glistened in their tins, in secret.
Other miracles
occurred and were forgotten.
