twisted portrait

Twisted potrait

No, no, no
I cannot.
I shall not
live this life
your way.

I have hidden beneath my mother’s skirts,
a trembling moth in the folds of her sorrow,
while my father’s stature
haunted doorframes and dinner tables
his constant presence,
a portrait that never stopped watching.

I have pressed myself thin,
putty sealing the cracks of a cold window,
holding the glass
as wind clawed for entry.

I have stared into the mirror’s silver throat
and watched beauty fade like breath
on the glass.

I have fed children from the hollows of my chest,
their mouths bright as candles
before they flickered out the door
leaving smoke trails
I still breathe.

I have stopped bleeding,
tended scraped knees,
and wiped tears
that shone like small ghosts on my fingers.

I have grown
from a frightened bud
into a tree black with wisdom
roots tangled in memory,
branches scraping at the attic of heaven.

My own hands watered me,
and through my mothering mistakes,
my children too became the rain.

Now my tears run clear
in the river of my knowledge
where shadows lean close to listen,
and still,
I have so much to learn.