Mrs

Her stroking hand, her smacking hand,
they still haunt me. Stroking was more terrible
than smacking which at least was honest.

I still flinch
confused by the reflexes of her moods,
the inconsistency of her words
and her love and her hate -
pooled into craziness and masked
every time she left our house
to cruise the outside world
as a sane woman.

She longed to be adored,
I know that. Father said, 'Just play along,
make life easy.'. It's a shame
I couldn't match her lies with more lies.
Couldn't say, 'Your're the best mum.',
when she felt like the worst.
Ever. At least for me.
In the end
I couldn't even cry, still can't,
fifty years on.