by Bridget Hart

On the vicious slope which my house crowns
strung with bags like gold hoops in earlobes,
I won’t complain at the memory of my mother, 
her fingers cat-clawed around four carrier bags 
in each hand straining up three flights of brutalist 
concrete on which our flat makes the top.

With the loo roll tucked under one arm 
carrying the carelessly light bag of toiletries 
I clambered after her impatient for the top, 
the door to be opened, the stairwell to stop 
snapping at my ankles, the kettle to be on –  
for our ritual of tea and freshly bought buns.

Today I am weighted with a week’s worth,
when I get back I’ll have reduced-isle mini 
doughnuts and coffee, call Mum at work
just to hear home in her voice.

Bridget Hart | @beehartyeah |@beehartyeah
Bristol-based DIY punk, intersectional feminist, podcaster, Gryffindor-er, Bridget Hart writes love-letters to women and survivors for solidarity. Her first collection Better Watch Your Mouth was released with Burning Eye Books in 2017.

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