Who wanted to be my mammy.
Who I wanted to be my mammy.
We didn’t tell anyone
not even ourselves.
Mother stood in the way
obdurate, certain of ownership,
not knowing I’d fallen in love with another.
Ida wanted to hold me
I wanted Ida to hold me
It never happened.
We knew it was illicit
this mother daughter adoption.
I memorised her address
(2 Chapel Road)
in case I should need to run
and find her, be the child
she didn’t have.
I knew all about her sisters,
Madge and Dolly
and the dresses they wore
each with a sash of a different colour.
In Ida’s cold kitchen
I’d find a bowl of raspberry jelly
put to set under a cloth weighted
with bright glass beads.
When Ida went to work
she wore scarlet lipstick,
put her hair into a pleat,
tried to look smart.
Poor Ida, my mother said.
