She is not my mother.
My mother is tall, stop traffic beautiful, and a home for crawling and creeping things.

She’s not my mother, the lady who laughs and tosses her hair. There’s a smudge of $20 lipstick on glossy teeth, but no one has the heart to tell her. You can see her, can’t you? She’s nervous, wants to make a good impression, needs acceptance lest she spend another night with a $20 bottle of wine.

She’s not my mother, she who stumbles then recovers from a fall. My mother’s steps are calculated, balanced by insanity, moving toward lust.
She walks past and I know it, though I try not to.
From behind she slips a veil over my head,
ties the knot tight around my neck
and labels the bag “Nothing”.
I answered to that name for years on end.
You called me Faith.
You are not my mother.

Written 8-10-2016 / 2:54 am EST

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3 thoughts on “You are not my mother

  1. I republished an old post of mine today, from 2008, and I found you there in the comments. I clicked the link and here you are! My heart is happy to find you. I was away from blogland for many moons. Your posts are powerful and your art is beautiful! Kindest regards to you, MW ❤️

  2. I think it’s neat when bloggers from the past pop up.
    I’ve thought about many over the years and wonder how they’re doing.

    I clicked on Marj ‘s link then went to her art site but I wasn’t able to find anything current. It feels like we’re from blog generations past. Lol. We need a reunion. Lol Where is my sweet gardener, where is Roses on the Moon, Paula, Annie, Paul, The Girl Who Wears My Shoes, velvet sacks, all of the people who used to do those survivor carnivals, how are they?

    There’s one person I’ve gotten close to enough to have had her and her new husband at my home, twice. We have been through the ringer and back but we’re both still chugging along.

    It is good to hear from you again.
    I’m lovin the poetry.

    I have to sign this the old way,

    Austin of Sundrip 🙂

No need to feel nervous, comment if you'd like.

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