Mean sister
We are stuck in our own words, not hearing each other. Sixty-somethings, we may as well be six, throwing sticks down the beck or poking dolls eyes out of their sockets, scribbling on their perfect faces. We are well rehearsed, know our cues, eye roll, sigh, the not you but I. When in doubt repeat, repeat, louder, harder, we catch blame like a worn ball. Mum made treacle tarts with sugar, lard and shame, we still stand waist deep in the viscous glue she stirred around our skinny legs, saying I love you. My mind feels sticky now, I can’t move. Not yet. I can’t forget all the times before, hurts not quite licked clean. I still feel mean.
Ali Murphy was shortlisted for Leeds Poetry Festival 2023 and is published in Out of Time, anthology. She was published in Bread and Roses 2021 and previously in Sheaf. She participates in poetry workshops with Gill and Mark Connors.