200 CCs - July 2016

A Mother’s Ruin
by Anne Lawrence Bradshaw
In the evenings, the gin would have taken effect, and the
barbed words drawling from your tongue sounded smooth
from over-use. I was cursed for never being the shock of red
you’d wanted to see. I was a monster, something you’d
always longed to sluice away.
Your eyes would be glass when I tucked you under your
blanket, your bruised legs purple, so cold. A thin trickle of
saliva would dribble down your chin, marking your blouse. I
would wipe your mouth with a tissue, throw it in the bin.
But the heavy scent of juniper lingered. Sometimes I would
lift the near empty bottle, tipping the dregs into my mouth.
I’d wait a few seconds for the familiar bitterness to coalesce.
How it burnt, leaving nothing but the afterglow of a
perfumed sigh.
One night, as the other kids played in the dusk outside, I sat
in the half-light, felt myself change. It was a moment, a
sordid understanding that I was just grit between your teeth.
You would rather spit me out than make me into a pearl.
As the moon rose over the house, I felt myself drift, go with
it. One by one, the stars pricked the underbelly of night,
while I sat, listening to you breathe.
Anne Lawrence Bradshaw writes poems and short stories. She lives in a dilapidated cottage
near Hadrian’s Wall, drinks too much tea and walks a lot. Tweet her @shrewdbanana.
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