On Mother's Mental Breakdown Poem by Trevor Maynard

The tip of my tongue rests against the inside of my teeth
Which for me, means I am thinking, it is what they call
A tell

At aged ten, or maybe eleven, on details I am unclear
My father slumped on a chair, a wooden, basic chair
In the middle of a brown-carpeted, empty room, and he drank
A whisky

My brother, seven, maybe eight, as I say, on the details …
Was several steps behind me, stood in the doorway to our bedroom
His shadow was cast long, the consequence of light thrown from
A bedside lamp with a crooked, dented, coffee cream shade
He wore the confused look of one who had awoken
But thought himself still asleep; his shoulders drooped, his head hung
His tiny, bare feet, poking through the tight cuffs of pyjamas, revealed
Uncut toenails

I told him everything would be alright, told him not to worry
To go back to sleep, that daddy would get mummy back
That she had not gone forever, that she was not mad
That she had not abandoned us, that she had not abandoned dad
That he was not drunk, just sad; all this I told him with
A single look

My dad gestured to me to come forward, the glass still in his hand
I shuffled, he leant further, I thought he would fall as the chair tipped
But as I reached his arms, he let loose the glass
I will remember forever that soft thud of cut crystal on the pile
Smell the peaty harshness of the alcohol on my father's breath
Feel the damp soaked strands of the carpet underfoot
His strong, army tattooed arms, holding me too tight
My tiny, bare feet, poking through the tight cuffs of pyjamas, revealing
Uncut toenails

He told me everything would be alright, told me not to worry
To go back to sleep, that mummy would come back soon
That she was not gone forever, that she was not mad
That she had not abandoned us, that she had not abandoned me
That he was not drunk, just sad; all this he told me with
A single look

The tip of my tongue rests against the inside of my teeth
Which for me, means I am thinking, it is what they call
A tell