My mother carried me through Hungary
and Rome. Embedded in her womb lining
and, against flight rules, I grew to 8 months
through the days on planes she made me
an unborn foreigner. I grew until I slid out
in Malta, but it could have been anywhere - any place.
She kept me in her back-pack, where I sight-saw
til 4, then walked next to her, through Belgium
from Poland. Around her wrists, wrapped 3 times,
her Rosary beads, on a string of French stones: Mary's face
overshadowed by the dangling crucifix. Her hair was blonde
like my mothers, they had the same eyes. Now I am hand-
cuffed by the beads she left me. My mother wrapped around
my wrists, and the crosses bang against my palms as
I walk. Reaching the tip of Anglesey I look out and
across to another space, searching for her and a home.
