My Mother Irons Herself

She smelled of burnt toasts and rotten eggs
Her rosemary perfume could barely cover up
The smell of her decay

Throughout the day
She irons the invisible creases of her old clothes
Maybe she irons herself
Flattening her invisible creases of pain

Devoured by the day’s gloom,
She prays to her deaf Gods

On Tuesdays she suffers infinitely
But keeps a smile on her sundarkened face
That's not how she was before
That's not how she was before I was out
From her womb

She was not quite happy with the product she made
I was a shame to her life
A shame she carried savagely
And my father , who casually abandoned
Her on a random Tuesday

She smelled of fresh books straight out of printer
She smelled of a new cemetery consecrated
No scent of rosemary perfume
Could ever cover up
The smell of her exhaustion

She - my mother
Who wore me around her
Like an ancient historical artefact
Drinks her coffee first
Before serving anyone else
That's how my mother is ,
That's how I wanted her to be

I wanted her to be selfish , unbearably selfish.