by Maddy Costa
If I took your withered umbilical cord,
shards of rosemary, the flame-seared pansies
you shrank from, crushed them with a pestle,
smeared in rue, herb of grace, and eight grains of salt,
could I conjure the daughter I’d hoped to meet?
.
If I laid out each strand of that first lock of hair,
spun it with spider’s silk, wove nettle weft
and oak leaf vein, placed it against your skin
each day for a thousand days, would it dissolve
the carapace you grew as shield from me?
.
If I took your diaries, soaked them in honey,
a dilution of vinegar and river water,
thimble for each time I imagined plunging in,
would it erase from memory – yours
and mine – the words never meant for me to see?
.
If I trapped the butterflies of seven summers
in a bell jar, let them dessicate, mixed the dust
with olive oil, cinnamon, London clay,
baked myself in it for seven summers more,
could I emerge purified, the mother you need?
.
Maddy Costa is a maker of texts, zines, conversations and, in the role of dramaturg, performances. She lives in London with her stubborn dog. She is a co-organiser of Something Other, Lambeth Mutual Aid, and a board member of the Dramaturgs’ Network.
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