Resin

She wears her funnel neck blouse
with balloon sleeves, bifta lit
and brows harried. Stares me
out like I'm business of nobody's.
I turtle in her shade.
She tells me she dreams
in ultra violet. The bees
are back in her head, she lists
twenty-five bona fide ways
she'd finish off my father. At the pub,
she buys me bum-fragranced nuts, convinces the bar
man we're sistren.

The moon is a wheel of brie
without the spokes. She sips
an upturned bell jar
of something grassy and German
in the smoking shelter
whilst I read my future in the beer rings
and it says I am concentric
duplicitous, hard to open,
like a mother.