Your mother was antediluvian.
Woollen skirts and flat soled shoes.
She burnt the dresses deemed to short
when the sun was low enough
that the neighbours wouldn’t see the smoke.
She spoke to you with asperity,
and I noticed when sleepovers
and then weeks.
Only to be punctured
by cantankerous phones calls
The first time you swore,
she turned white.
It wasn’t really the first time,
but she’d never heard you before
and the fuck stabbed her
like all the little hair pins
she used to hold herself together.