Poem About Mothers

For the things that shouldn't have happened

Close your eyes

picture your mother.

No, not the one that sang to you

about clumsy spiders, rain in April.

Don’t picture that woman

who rocked you on her breast,

ran soft fingers through new hair.

Instead dredge up the image

of the battered teenager

who forced you from between

quivering thighs and swollen lips

bathed you in angry piss

before passing you to waiting hands.

Sketch her hair,

brown roots trickling

between unwashed blonde,

framing her face, cheekbones

pressed high against green eyes

stalked by dirty freckles.

Don’t look at your own face.

The resemblance will be distracting.

Listen closely to her rough voice,

the sound of rock and smoke

when she laughs,

though you seldom hear it.

Picture your mother.

Tell her young love is a lie

some locks and curtains

are meant to stay closed.

Prod and pester until she returns

to her own mother,

Take the green glass bottle from her hand,

Snap her denim jacket back up.

Tell her nightmares

of blistered feet, lost babies,

how her little sister misses her.

Tell her to cherish her time.

Picture that mother

who shouldn’t be a mother

turn her left, back to warm cotton

sheets and coffee with cream.

Tell her to wash her face,

button her shirt

grow up.

Picture your mother.

Picture my mother.