May I go for a Swim, Mother Dear?
We are allowed to the edge of the truth.
We lean over carefully,
dip toes and fingers.
Over the edge is the rage of the artist,
diving
through nights with his hands trailing oysters,
honing his talents on
sharpstones of freedom,
clawing his name on the backs of his
children.
We are allowed to go paddling, Tuesdays.
We are allowed to
the edge of the truth.
(Previously published in Angry Women
Anthology, Hale and Iremonger, 1989; and in Island Magazine n.43/44,
1990.)
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