Mumma
Mumma collects what she finds
in a stretched, worn tote
worn stretched across her breast
like an awkward overgrown baby
that she can’t help but nurse
and bear on her skin
over her heart
and all gentle cradle
and fill with things she finds useful
last time I was close to her,
I saw she had found a thimble
with no grip, a threadbare stocking,
two dated advent calendars,
a rusted tin of odd threadless buttons,
a stranger’s spontaneous holiday snaps and
a baby grow that had not fitted me
The Kindling 