My mother never told us who she loved,
but packed us off to school each sun cracked dawn
with hair tied neat and bellies full.
And although no wispy words formed from her tongue,
her bold stone eye melted in visions of the young
and those birds she wished to keep flying clear
for they were so cherished that they gained her cheer.
And no,
she never said ‘I love you’,
for such mutterings are filthy as the woman
who claims a crystal love to children as she beats them.
