My Bad Dream

Today, I had the conversation
With my mother that should
Have happened years ago.
She dead, me guiltily pleading.
The coffin was too
Neat and tidy for her;
Her skin looked like tracing paper
Stretched over wet, starchy rice.
I tried hard not to think
About the bits of her -
Bits filled in and pulled out and
Smoothed over.
I started to talk, wishing she would
Free her mouth from its grinning grimace
And tell me everything was alright,
Call me a fat arse with her familiar charm.
They had put proper shoes on her,
Thrown away her florescent orange
Adidas trainers. My guilty words
Squirrelled out of me like
Satiated ticks from the dog,
And still she
Smiled and said nothing.
When I had bad dreams
I used to climb in her bed,
Right up to the age of 12 or 13.
I dragged one knee up,
Then dragged the other.
I stretched out on the edge
Of the brown table.
My cheek moulded to the cruel
Coffin wall, and the water
From my eyes formed a blurry,
Slippy glue.
I took her hand and we stared ahead.