At 70


You say the problem is not 

being with the old people in
the loony bin, but
whether they’ll let you out.
You pretend you are Marlon
Brando in The Godfather and
lunge for my neck,
growling through
This, I say,
a number of times,
is frightening.
You devour the chocolate &
raspberry cake we brought gift-
boxed, but
cannot recall
the object that is
You make us
laugh with mimicry, accents,
snarls and
costume changes like
as if you really
were the actor
you claim to be.
You disremember that
I am
your daughter,
and confuse
my daughter
with me.

One thought on “At 70

  1. Pingback: summer time blues | tolerance for ambiguity

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