'Let's revisit last week’s conversation
and think through why the stories you make-up
concern abuse and cruel sarcasm.
You said, I quote, My childhood seemed a waste,
so many futile sunny days; singing
happy birthday made me cry. I felt diseased.
I wonder why you chose that word – diseased,
not lonely, or anxious? Conversation -
you said it helps, Maybe the words we waste
stave off white space, and I, through you, make up
a paltry life, and feel fulfilled singing
from your hymn sheet. Was that your sarcasm?'
'No, more like the crumbling edge. Sarcasm
is just a puritan’s social disease'
She smiles, takes notes, as if to say why waste
your humour on a shrink; so I make up
to please her, a bogus conversation
with mother, how I hated her singing.
'I cannot see her face; I hear her singing,
a rich contralto voice; my sarcasm -
shielding the cat’s ears as she sang..''Why make up
these tales? Last week’s concerned childhood disease -
your allergy to cats.' Conversation
falters, costly moments go to waste.
'Like litter blown across a weed strewn waste,
her songs are lost..' ' No, think about her singing.
I know how hard you find this conversation,
don't hide behind your phony sarcasm'
'Towards the end she lost her voice; the disease
stole it. She mouthed the words, doing her make-up
propped-up at the mirror, daubing make-up
on hollow cheeks, her pocked face gone to waste.
Later, bedridden, when finally disease
addled her mind, I ended-up singing
old songs to comfort her. No sarcasm -
just sentimental songs, our final conversation.'
Memories I make up - my Mother’s singing,
her terminal disease, the sarcasm
I waste today in ritual conversation.