My mother

Love, soulfood

Your presence has always been a warm spring afternoon that pops up in the dead of winter.

Lovely beyond measure, surprising, short-lived.

The contrast. Stark.

The thrill. Intense.

Just enough to hold me over.

You’ve always came in seasons.

Advertisements

To Fail the Reflection of Yourself 

Ever Sophia, Love

 

You and I child

We are one.
Where I stop you begin.

There are a lot of things that I am good at:
Falling in love
Following through
Getting back up
and carrying someone with me.

 

I haven’t always been good at being your mother.

 

This is a new skill set for
Me-I
You-and-I .

 

And damn if we aren’t both constantly changing
Growing
and trying to keep up.
Hold my hand, we’ll look both ways.

 

You and I child.

 

 

Things That Live In My Womb

create, soulfood, your body

I inherited the blood, cells, DNA, tears and sweat
of thousands of women.
Four of us have shared a table,
broke bread and called ourselves mother.

 

My great-grandmother
an elusive and frigid woman.
Not the first in the chain of insecurity I’m sure,
but my first reference point.
I have never understood how my own mother loved her so.

 

My grandmother,
well she’s had two lives. Is of two worlds.
Children were a textbook endeavor.
Philosophy and materials were much more suitable.

 

My mother, sensitive and callused.
The product of confusion and regret
Gilded in an oily slick of redemption.
The child to make up for the one given away.

 

The child of confusion.
She has stumbled through life
trying to fill holes of inconceivable depth.

 

To fill them with:
babies
bread
flora and fauna.
Tucking herself into a flower bed of lonely each night.

 

Born redemption,
grew to be shame.
Mouth covered and the last morsels raped away.

 

One- two- three
We never healed you.

 

One- gone six years too soon.
Two-gone six years too late.
Three – forever at your heals.

 

Here’s four mama. Born redemption.
Hold her with me.