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.)

© Mary Blackwood