Father died when I was 16.
Done. Finalized. But he had died to me long before, perhaps when I was 2 or 3. I don’t remember.
She was in constant reincarnation. Flux and flow.
At 6 – she was my hero.
At 10 – my torturer.
By 12 – we were strangers.
At 16 – I couldn’t wait to get away.
By 19 – A betrayer. Broom sticks and bloody knuckles. Years of silence.
At 22 – I searched for God beneath her feet. Humility turned humiliation.
A year later, I lost my mind and she helped me find it.
25 – we switched sides. I the preparator and she the victim.
27 – I became a mother – healing wounds so they would not become inherited.
30 – She threatened what was most sacred.
At 32 – the all too familiar emptiness, the silence of abandon.
My father died twice, my relationship with my mother many more times.
Sometimes, I feel so scattered because I’m looking for the love of a mother in the hands, ears, embraces, and pockets of near strangers.
Head under water,
Trapped under feet,
Words like fists
Lovers like mothers
Make them a father
A ghost of a being
Verb blows go
Stuck in the groove
A glimmer of paradise
We are nothing
Yet, patterns repeat
A need unmet
Search for the peace
Autumn kisses the spots of my skin turned goose,
Lessons of solitude – alone,
Better company than I had 1 year ago.
Autumn says the Winter will soon consume –
Bitter winds, dancing freeze.
It is a time to reflect, dissect, and disconnect.