A reply to this poem
There was this way, you know,
she had, of staring, ringed in smoke,
stabbing out
her cig on her father's arm, saying to me: "would you do that?"
And I'd say no, and your mother
would just laugh at that; maybe asking
if she'd mind is just a game
I'm playing with you. I find it hard
to think she wouldn't mind
anything at all, your mother,
who would cradle you when you returned
from the battle, dead, with the noisy neighbours -- and
like Grendel's mother, like all mothers who ever deserved the title,
would kill them all.
But not for you.
I do not think she would mind.
I might mind, though, that she'd laugh
especially knowing we were still together.
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