MUM’S LAST POEM TO US

Hold out your arms

Death, hold out your arms for me Embrace me Give me your motherly caress, Through all this suffering You have not forgotten me. You are the bearded iris that bakes its rhizomes Beside the wall, Your scent flushes with loveliness, Sherbet, pure iris Lovely and intricate. I am the child who stands by the wall Not much taller than the iris. The sun covers me The day waits for me In my funny dress.

Death, you heap into my arms A basket of unripe damsons Red crisscross straps that button behind me. I don’t know about school, My knowledge is for papery bud covers Tall stems and brown Bees touching here and there, delicately Before a swerve to the sun. Death stoops over me Her long skirts slide, She knows I am shy. Even the puffed sleeves on my white blouse Embarrass me, She will pick me up and hold me So no one can see me, I will scrub my hair into hers. There, the iris increases Note by note As the wall gives back heat. Death, there’s no need to ask: A mother will always lift a child As a rhizome Must lift up a flower So you settle me My arms twining, Thighs gripping your hips Where the swell of you is. As you push back my hair – Which could do with a comb But never mind – You murmur ‘We’re nearly there.’