Dukeries Academy, Nottingham, 2021
I have cradled architecture, nursed dreamy-milk kitchen sinks and hushed a mint Roberts radio in hanging visions. In a moment, my egg, my possible fate, I saw you grown. I could choose an apple from the bowl, run water, knead dough, but I feel no need to cradle, nurse or hush – it just isn’t in me. I have had to kill you, kitchen dear, smother you in your cot because you are not what I want. I am not your mother, and you are no child of mine; I held you in magazines to try you on for size, and you cried. I wanted you so badly that I married men and their newspapers, men I thought you’d like to lean against your marble worktops, in a daze whilst I baked bread, made cake batter in duck-egg mixers to too sweet dreams - now thrown up. I cannot force-feed for comfort, have to leave your shining surfaces like unwiped tear-smeared cheeks, and swap pastel clean for some kind of chaos.