I learnt the crafting of words
In silences at my parents’ table.
Filling the unsaid, the forbidden,
With my stifled responses.
Gagging on the gristle
Of the utilitarian, post-war pie
That my mother could not give up
For reasons of economy and habit.

And on my father’s injustice.

He ate only the succulent meat.                                                                                     In the centre of our table
My mother kept a bowl
For him to place discarded
Cubes and tubes of quivering fat.
Carefully trimmed they lay there,
Pale fingers
Reaching for my throat
And making me want to vomit.

At the end of the meal
My mother turned the mess
Onto her plate
And popped it down.
‘For goodness.’

She ate squashed cakes he would not touch
And the crusts of pies he did not want,
Like the family dog.

Once I spoke
And the blow made me see stars.

Through fifty years of my woman’s life
I have taken the leavings
And chewed them well
To make me strong.

Then
For my mother
And my sex
I have spat them back

As words.