My Mother lives in a Polaroid

She cannot look me in the eye,
as I bury a thumbnail beneath her chin.

Her mouth stays silent, doesn’t wince,
whilst her dimpled cheek is ripped and lifted.

I feel her features ruck and pull,
their monochrome drawn back to the hairline,

the Polaroid’s waxy veneer teased free,
as I tear at her youth and scrape away
the years where she had no knowledge of me.

I want to see myself in her.

As if, in some way,
peeling her image will bring us closer:

my moon-face framed
in the space I made in her.

But only the fault and wreckage remain,
and she does not see I’m here.