I worry every time I see her it may be
\nthe last time. My mother is 74 this year,
\nthat age when, if she doesn\u2019t answer
\nthe phone, my stomach backspins.<\/p>\n
Today I massaged her hands with moisturiser,
\nwith drops of lavender mixed in it. Her arthritis
\nis really bad in her left hand. The thumb
\nclosing over the palm. Her middle finger
\nthick ropey gristle beneath tissue transparent skin.<\/p>\n
This is the first time we\u2019ve done such a thing
\nMother objects at first, but begins to enjoy
\nmy fingers pressing her fingers; the muscle-root
\nin her forearm, the small marbles that roll
\nacross the muscle.<\/p>\n
Often these days we dance to Abba or Queen,
\nquick two minute waltzes on her green cat-haired
\nrug that\u2019s always crooked. She\u2019s not been touched
\nmuch in her life. I die if a day goes by without a love.<\/p>\n
She never hugged us once we\u2019d stopped being small
\nMy sisters and I are knotty trees in
\nmum\u2019s garden. Now I try to feed and care
\nfor her with lavender oil and hands, hoping
\nsome of the love I taught myself will soak
\ninto her fingers, and backflow into
\nher body, through the fibres she has grown
\nover her untouched desire.
\n…<\/p>\n