some things don't get finished because of time. because of importance. because some things are choked so far back in your throat that you have no hopes of spitting it out. and sometimes things don't get finished because you're too afraid to get down everything that you're feeling.
we are all still reaching for someone
the first time your mother held you,
her eyes flew past towhere your tiny hands were making a fist
like you were already denying your guilt
you learned so quickly how to say no.
your mother stopped crying,
eventually,
and held you tighter to smother
out the protest
that's what mothers do.
my mother covers up my tears,
strangles them midair,
and tries her damnedest to turn them into laughter
or at least give me something to do
when it doesn't work, she
cries with me, swallowing up
everything i'm fearing most
she holds me from the inside, like a liquid heartbeat,
gold warmth leaking through me,
keeping time with rhythmic hopes
sometimes it seems like she knows everything
from the first curseword i said
to the last time i swore
i would ask god for forgiveness
we are all still hoping to be something
other than what we were
in the now before now.
© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved
