in the presence of a photo of
your mother, aged twenty three
her hands folded and covered in glitter
her hair long and black
sitting with young men in mcdonalds
whose faces, next to hers
appear handsome and directionless
her mouth open and heart shaped
it suddenly dawns on you
that as the glitter comes to rest,
as it predictably does, as it always does,
on our eyelids, setting
us on fire with the glamour of the past
you suddenly forget her perfection and in
time you forget your mother’s face