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Crusts

There was a day when I was younger when I was going to have a new bed. The day before bed delivery day I knew I had to tackle what was under my bed, but somehow I got distracted and forgot....

Answering My Mother (Audio)

ANSWERING MY MOTHER

I had meant to move them,
remembered that I needed to move them.
Then the day distracted me
and bedtime was just for sleeping
and a new day was coming down for breakfast
and putting the television on.
Not even when she went upstairs that morning
did I think of it again.
Until she shouted, I had totally forgotten.
We could have had mice.
Then my forgetful mind made my heart sink.
The cry worsened;
Rats! We could have had rats.
The four flights of stairs between us
only gave me time to swallow
and stare.
I had meant to move them.
I had planned to wrap them in newspaper,
like chips,
take the package quietly to the backyard,
unclip the dustbin lid,
lay it inside.
Rats! We could have had rats.
If you didn’t want to eat them, that’s OK.
You didn’t need to hide them under there.
For months I had been pushing
Sunday crusts under the bed.
Too dry. Too dark.
I only liked soft buttered marmalade bites.
I ate to the edge;
felt ungrateful not being able to eat the rest
so I slid them under the bed.
If I had put them in my bin
she would have known my ingratitude,
They’re mouldy. The carpet’s mouldy.
The bed men are coming and we’ve got mould.
We could have had rats.
Why didn’t you just bring them downstairs?
My answer wouldn’t come.

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