I’ve heard there’s no love
in the world but even
the pilot fish passes
down to her children the knack
of living close
to the shark’s mouth.
I’ve never forgotten
the green,
silk blouse my mother
put the finishing touches to
with a cool iron
one summer evening while
I teased my hair
to a 60s bouffant in her mirror
hanging at a slant
above her sideboard;
it keeps me singing towards
the possible.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 3.