Mother

I am …
A child
With a full heart, hidden
Somewhere in an empty room …

I wonder …
If love is a tale made for children —
A granting of sweet dreams in their innocence —
A honey-coating to help their throats
Choke down the bitter draught …

I see …
A woman, proud, uncompromising,
Diaphanous as air — now crumbled into the ground.
Crawling in darkness on her weary body,
Salt poison pooled upon her withered feet…

I want …
A measure of quietude, a certain silence,
The echo of alone which can heal me of this pain,
The nothing that stills the wanting,
The numb, the cold will warm me once again.

I am
A child,
hidden …

I pretend …
That I can live forever — that Time
Has no puissant —
And so, I can wait, I can be happy tomorrow,
Sleep is for the dead; but its ghosts haunt my waking …

I feel …
Too much — too deeply to be directionless,
Too real for imagining, and yet the familiar eyes
Hold nothing of recognition — only my reflection —
A meeting of shadows in sunlit glass;

I touch …
The downy wings of hope, in wonder,
In reverence, in need, in hunger;
Alas, it burns my fingers as a flame,
A sacrilege, self-defined …

I worry …
That I am alone; that in my longing
I have forsaken all — that I can not forgive myself.
“Who can love you if your own mother can’t?”
It is not my fault, not my fault, not my fault.

I cry …
For having too much, for fear of bursting,
And then, when by the pouring of my soul
I lie, a vessel emptied, I cry again
For what was had, and lost;

I am
A child,
saved…

I understand
That life is what you make it,
That sometimes, the coat of many colors
That marks your triumphs brightly, blends only
To loneliest of grey …

I say
That we are made by life, shaped,
Broken, perhaps — unmade and voided —
But always, the core of us remains, waiting
With only faith, with trust, to be reborn;

I dream
Of bluest waters, reaching
With unnatural hands toward the faded sky,
Of dolphins that wander in seas without limits,
Carrying me water-breathing past corals and clouds …

I try …
To lead by example, knowing
That merely the telling holds no power;
A gift of giving is merely a day, while
A gift of knowing spans forever;

I hope …
That my darkness holds you gently,
That pain is halved by sharing, that feeling
Wields nothing past the words it summons,
Except that it touch you with only healing …

I am your child,
only.

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