Bad Mother

When I was a kid
my mother told lies,
including about gay men she said
her friend had caught on cam,
in toilets putting tampons up their bums
to staunch the bleeding.

I’m not sure why she said these things,
and though she didn’t know (I think)
that I was queer, it still seems like
an unusual fib to tell your teenage son.

I still see myself sat in her armchair
while she, in fleece and long dark hair,
did makeup in a long mirror.
I must have known what a bad mother
she was, just like Mrs West must have known
what Fred did in the cellar after dark.

But parents when we’re young are stark
of colour and outline, you don’t see through
to nuance, shade, until you’re ready to.