My mother hums
Whenever
my mum’s
not talking
she hums
no tune, no words
just tum-ti-tums,
she’d say it’s just like
twiddling thumbs
or maybe idly
picking crumbs,
a careless thing one does
when thought succumbs,
no meaning in those
pum-padda-pums.
But I would say
my mother hums
to drown out how
the silence thrums
and not hear how
her heartbeat drums
and not think how
the darkness comes;
I think for her,
it numbs.
I find that
gin or rum’s
a better bet for that,
but my mum’s
sticking with what works for her:
she hums
she hums
she hums.
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