Mother taught me
not to eat in public.
That sticky, pastry-encrusted
fingers wrapped round
bulging Greggs bags
were unacceptable.

She taught me
to always have shiny
“our-family-never-fights”
plates and knives and spoons,
even if the table
was chippedworn and yellow-ringed.

I learned fewer instead of less,
and how to stamp possession
with an apostrophe.
My accent had to go,
was sucked up in the summer
autumn winter spring-cleans.

A crease in my jeans
spelt bad-mother;
the words had to be ironed out.
Shirts were always cool
and crisp, even if eyes
were hot and red.

I wonder what she would think of me now;
vacuuming in my bra, singing along
to Melissa auf der Maur,
“I’ll Be Anything You Want.”