Skin flint

Skin flint

My mother used her skin like flint,
said she hadn’t shaved her legs since
Patti Smith got on stage
and pissed on pop poster smiles.

She cut our hair in lego lines,
sung us ‘Pretty Vacant’ from the toilet seat,
she left the door open while she got changed and got us used to no bra breasts.

She said some people say they have no love to lose
but that everyone has too much
and that’s why only sometimes we notice that
learning’s tough.

She picked us up from class-mates houses
tall and lean in her kohl black jeans,
cycled us home while we bored traffic lights
chatting on about Sylvanians and Micro Machines.

She let us leave our hair in shampoo steeples
race out naked with towels like kites
she held our bath-pickled fingers
while we clamoured to report school fights.

She never said she hated hairspray
or the way we later piled on blush
she let us do our make up our own way
and learn that sometimes, skin is enough.