Two Mothers Poem by Irene Cunningham

My friend lived in a flat castle
with a door that smiled
out into the world

she was four stairs and a short
sprint to the chip shop.

I lived on the ground floor of a
stunted tenement
on the good weather side of the street;

our white stone sat
on top of Walkmill Street’s black
walls like a heavenly hyphen.

‘Different stone awthigither’
my mother roared often.
‘Slum clearance’

her nose sensed my admiration
of the prefabs.

She’d feed my friend on good thick
soup and slices
of warm dumpling.

‘They’re no proper hooses’
she’d say, sliding
the oven shelves back in
as the dumpling cooled on the table.
‘Could faw doon any minute’

My mother made me dresses
and coats with hats to match.

My friend wore trousers.
We smelled different.

Our walls were as thick as the soup;
hers
thin white chalk
like fish in batter.

(Published in Writing Women 1993)