by Barbara Robinson

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Don’t give your mother MDMA
and I’ll tell you a reason why: depending on age, height, weight
(and general health), there’s a twenty-five per cent chance that she’ll die.
So, you know. Don’t.

But no, don’t give your mother MDMA
and I’ll tell you another reason for why: you may live for Saturdays, sweating and gurning,
possibly shitting yourself, awash on the sea of big love that loves you back until
Tuesday
and you’re in the horrors, weeping, that beautiful memory of sharing a bottle of poppers with Fiz from Corrie
has shrunk to two angry, chemical burns above your lip where she jogged your elbow when you tried to tell her how much you love
her, this song, the world.

But such is the way of MDMA
that on Christmas Day when your mam starts shaking her shoulders to Baccara’s Yes Sir, I Can Boogie on Top of the Pops Two
you might get carried away in a rush of that beautiful agápē and tell her that you love her, this song, the world.
And that’s OK-(ish)
but don’t offer her a dab from your grubby little bag.
Just don’t. It’s weird and inappropriate. Why would you do that?

So, you must never, ever, give your mother MDMA

And I’ll tell you the real reason why: one day long ago, at an hour determined by you, your mother – mighty powerhouse of chemical creation – sweating and gurning, and probably shitting herself ‘til you ripped out of her (one way or another)
looked into your wrinkled face with wonder
the first person in this world to see you
to give you your first taste of agápē and agon, bliss and pain.
Ecstasy.

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Barbara Robinson is from Manchester, UK. She writes about dark subjects illuminated by humour and hope. She has had several short stories published and is currently working on her second novel. Don’t Give Your Mother MDMA is her first poem and is inspired by the works of John Cooper-Clarke and Pam Ayres.