A kind of tightrope. 1995.

My mother is a Finnish swan

That got blown off course.

She landed in my father’s dreams that pulled her,


out of her entire life and into his.

She bore his children and covered us all in his history,

which is clogging up her veins,

And the memory of her lack of motherhood

Hangs around.

It was her husband’s dreams

she bore.

Awash with all that went before

Awash away the pain, the pain.

She’s crying again.

It’s 3 am.

The coffee’s cold.


It did not used to be this way

Remember the ‘before these days’.

I wonder what she still loves him for.

She loved him too much

Helped him make his dream

She did all the whisking work

He got all the cream.

Mum has become a stranger.

Dad is not living alone.

Together they divided up what once to me

was home.

Mum tortures herself with remembering.

Dad pretty much tries to forget.

I walk a kind of tightrope

Without a safety net.



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