Trust

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My mother often said,
‘I never realised …
No, she never did understand
her heart’s enforced frugalities,
faith’s hand-shadow of betrayal,
breath’s tiny lies.

A sense of trust
must be buoyed up
by actualities.
The babe must find the teat
to re-invent its life
from suck to twitch.
Lips must meet with flesh
for shared dualities.

There must be good-enough;
big hands to catch the fall,
soft cushions for the head,
the lid removed to reveal
warm acts given and received.
The stitch must draw its thread,
forms combine and follow.

If she knew the constant message,
double-dealing,
if hard negatives corrupt each wish
it’s no surprise she used to say,
‘I have this sinking feeling …’

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