No Longer Am I Mother
HOPE:
O Precious one, I watched you unfurl,
As a tiny seed from the ground.
Limbs askew, with roots entangled,
And leaves as flags deprived of sun.
DESPAIR: The place you landed was inauspicious, trapped in shallow soil, in eternities of moonless nights.
Trampled by feet, and shredded by mowers,
You struggled mightily. But I could not move, only watch, screaming silently, to witness a
Slow demise, mourning the loss of all connection.
RAGE:
One day, the Contractor came again, cut my trunk off at the knees,
his big dark scythe ripping mercilessly through a soul in leaves of sap,
Counted the rings of my wasted years in dreams, laughed at my suffering,
Then tossed my dying branches in a fire so that he could enjoy my death in flames- useless deadwood
Stump, left to rot:
For it was always destined to be, fated that deliberate cruelty would destroy all life, as man’s sociopathy
and power over trumps even natural selection.
I willed a storm to rip through the forest, tried to save you, laid bare the glaring truth,
Watered your drooping, bowed leaves with sap and tears and nutrients spread anew.
As my trunk degraded, you grew strong, but with your little form's limbs splayed out akimbo, in the
midst of the detritus:
Rain of ancient wisdom cried out to try to reveal the unfairness in a void of a lifeless forest, a paean for
All the deaths of the innocent ones at the hands of the warped intentions of the unjust. Silence. Only
silence is not heard.
SHOCK:
But the tornado spawned another, in you. Knowing your life was now in his hands, without me, you
Grew to "Love" the one with the scythe. Moth to the flame. Moth to the flame.
He groomed and filled you with lies and ripped all the healthy, loving branches off of you, crooning that
He would take "you"
Away from that ugly stump, called "Mom," lying on the ground, eaten from within by ants.
One day, in the fullness of your already stolen womanhood, you walked away with him like a wraith,
possessed by demons.
VICTIMIZATION:
But before you left, you wore the Doc Martens he’d bought and kicked me over, then jumped up
And down gleefully on my dead stump, as if "it" never meant a thing to you. Finally free, or so you
Thought.
I saw you waltz away, Devil Horns superglued to your forehead, eyebrowless with scars the size of the
Grand Canyon,
Running like heaves of muscles across your legs. You were happy. Even cackling. You and the man
With the Scythe, cracking jokes at the one who had given birth to and nurtured you. 14 long years,
Burned up by the flame of one Man's conscious-less cruelty.
I’m not sure who was buried first, the beautiful, little, innocent cotyledon, or the maple that used to rise
Up naively (and stupidly), with radiance and joy, to embrace the infinite sky.
BARGAINING:
Give me one more chance, my dear.
Lay you down, oh I lay you down, wrap your precious little head, perfect body and content smile and tiny
Legs in a soft blanket. I rock you, read “The Runaway Bunny” just one more time, tuck you into a soft
wing, "Papoosie" you, then encircle you with my white arms- form an impenetrable cocoon
around our innocence; I encircle us with autumn leaves. My only wish is to hold you safely there in that
time- don’t want to let go, cannot let go- some stupid mandate of DNA keeps me from putting you into
that cold ground. Let me keep rocking you, in my grandmother’s rocking chair.
Bargaining.
Rocking. Rocking. And then this willowy, makeup-ridden, laced Lolita dressed doll, as if from a Dresden
Bombing,
Parades in, tall and confident, filled with rapidfire words to coerce, and an army of evil words to pierce
My heart, as the scythe is now in your hands.
“It’s YOU!” I cry. The babe in the blanket and you are one. Yes. I believe. There is only one, and the
You that is she is GOODNESS. (But what about that knife...this nags).
ABUSE, AND TRAUMATIC BONDING:
Just as I reach to hold you as the one that had left, the scythe comes out. Blaming, demands,
Proclamations, abuse, utter falsehoods. I feel the warped child trying to heal, I understand the trauma-
Just.Let.Me.In. But no, it is your world, along with the righteousness to turn accusations into goodbyes.
She killed me already, after all, storms out with anger, after having said all that she
Needed, to be One with Scythe. She came to put me to death, just as I was trying to bring her to new
Life.
PTSD:
I recall the day you first told me you loved me- it is etched into my being. You were 3. It was the first
Time anyone loved me because I simply existed, not because I was needed as a tool, or a scapegoat, or
To holdup the facade of "perfect." I cried tears for a lifetime of invisibility, and held you close. No one
Had ever given me that grace, that small validation to say that I was real, that all I needed to do was
Be.
That same creature has now sentenced me to death; for the entitled adult children of the abused,
Deadwood mothers are of no use, saved to torture, lured into the spider's snare, then dumped for
No reason.
DEAD RECKONING:
There's not one of you but two, and the mean one is really you.
Truth: I stare lovingly down at the precious little one, praying for redemption, bargaining with the
mean one in my head.
It is time. It is time.
Not one of you in me but two, and the consciousless one is really you.
The good one died, or was that hope, illusions to mask the ugly truth?
Oh I lay you down so gently now, and place you in a boat;
No more need for alligators, "princes," or a moat.
I’ll sing the songs of us for all the first years that we had.
I send my lens of you to die; goodbye to all the mad.
No longer am I mother, yet never am I free,
Whatever was the reason that breath has chosen me?
The evil her is cruel, and wills that “It” be set to die,
It’s hers to figure out to care or not or question why.
For when I'm gone, and come what may, you will truly be alone.
The dead were long since buried, and you are not my home.
We are not connected; I don't even know this demonic Wraith;
If I met you on the street today, I'd never bother to relate.
If empathy and caring can never truly shine,
Then where the hell is mercy for the mothers left behind?
O Precious one, I watched you unfurl,
As a tiny seed from the ground.
Limbs askew, with roots entangled,
And leaves as flags deprived of sun.
DESPAIR: The place you landed was inauspicious, trapped in shallow soil, in eternities of moonless nights.
Trampled by feet, and shredded by mowers,
You struggled mightily. But I could not move, only watch, screaming silently, to witness a
Slow demise, mourning the loss of all connection.
RAGE:
One day, the Contractor came again, cut my trunk off at the knees,
his big dark scythe ripping mercilessly through a soul in leaves of sap,
Counted the rings of my wasted years in dreams, laughed at my suffering,
Then tossed my dying branches in a fire so that he could enjoy my death in flames- useless deadwood
Stump, left to rot:
For it was always destined to be, fated that deliberate cruelty would destroy all life, as man’s sociopathy
and power over trumps even natural selection.
I willed a storm to rip through the forest, tried to save you, laid bare the glaring truth,
Watered your drooping, bowed leaves with sap and tears and nutrients spread anew.
As my trunk degraded, you grew strong, but with your little form's limbs splayed out akimbo, in the
midst of the detritus:
Rain of ancient wisdom cried out to try to reveal the unfairness in a void of a lifeless forest, a paean for
All the deaths of the innocent ones at the hands of the warped intentions of the unjust. Silence. Only
silence is not heard.
SHOCK:
But the tornado spawned another, in you. Knowing your life was now in his hands, without me, you
Grew to "Love" the one with the scythe. Moth to the flame. Moth to the flame.
He groomed and filled you with lies and ripped all the healthy, loving branches off of you, crooning that
He would take "you"
Away from that ugly stump, called "Mom," lying on the ground, eaten from within by ants.
One day, in the fullness of your already stolen womanhood, you walked away with him like a wraith,
possessed by demons.
VICTIMIZATION:
But before you left, you wore the Doc Martens he’d bought and kicked me over, then jumped up
And down gleefully on my dead stump, as if "it" never meant a thing to you. Finally free, or so you
Thought.
I saw you waltz away, Devil Horns superglued to your forehead, eyebrowless with scars the size of the
Grand Canyon,
Running like heaves of muscles across your legs. You were happy. Even cackling. You and the man
With the Scythe, cracking jokes at the one who had given birth to and nurtured you. 14 long years,
Burned up by the flame of one Man's conscious-less cruelty.
I’m not sure who was buried first, the beautiful, little, innocent cotyledon, or the maple that used to rise
Up naively (and stupidly), with radiance and joy, to embrace the infinite sky.
BARGAINING:
Give me one more chance, my dear.
Lay you down, oh I lay you down, wrap your precious little head, perfect body and content smile and tiny
Legs in a soft blanket. I rock you, read “The Runaway Bunny” just one more time, tuck you into a soft
wing, "Papoosie" you, then encircle you with my white arms- form an impenetrable cocoon
around our innocence; I encircle us with autumn leaves. My only wish is to hold you safely there in that
time- don’t want to let go, cannot let go- some stupid mandate of DNA keeps me from putting you into
that cold ground. Let me keep rocking you, in my grandmother’s rocking chair.
Bargaining.
Rocking. Rocking. And then this willowy, makeup-ridden, laced Lolita dressed doll, as if from a Dresden
Bombing,
Parades in, tall and confident, filled with rapidfire words to coerce, and an army of evil words to pierce
My heart, as the scythe is now in your hands.
“It’s YOU!” I cry. The babe in the blanket and you are one. Yes. I believe. There is only one, and the
You that is she is GOODNESS. (But what about that knife...this nags).
ABUSE, AND TRAUMATIC BONDING:
Just as I reach to hold you as the one that had left, the scythe comes out. Blaming, demands,
Proclamations, abuse, utter falsehoods. I feel the warped child trying to heal, I understand the trauma-
Just.Let.Me.In. But no, it is your world, along with the righteousness to turn accusations into goodbyes.
She killed me already, after all, storms out with anger, after having said all that she
Needed, to be One with Scythe. She came to put me to death, just as I was trying to bring her to new
Life.
PTSD:
I recall the day you first told me you loved me- it is etched into my being. You were 3. It was the first
Time anyone loved me because I simply existed, not because I was needed as a tool, or a scapegoat, or
To holdup the facade of "perfect." I cried tears for a lifetime of invisibility, and held you close. No one
Had ever given me that grace, that small validation to say that I was real, that all I needed to do was
Be.
That same creature has now sentenced me to death; for the entitled adult children of the abused,
Deadwood mothers are of no use, saved to torture, lured into the spider's snare, then dumped for
No reason.
DEAD RECKONING:
There's not one of you but two, and the mean one is really you.
Truth: I stare lovingly down at the precious little one, praying for redemption, bargaining with the
mean one in my head.
It is time. It is time.
Not one of you in me but two, and the consciousless one is really you.
The good one died, or was that hope, illusions to mask the ugly truth?
Oh I lay you down so gently now, and place you in a boat;
No more need for alligators, "princes," or a moat.
I’ll sing the songs of us for all the first years that we had.
I send my lens of you to die; goodbye to all the mad.
No longer am I mother, yet never am I free,
Whatever was the reason that breath has chosen me?
The evil her is cruel, and wills that “It” be set to die,
It’s hers to figure out to care or not or question why.
For when I'm gone, and come what may, you will truly be alone.
The dead were long since buried, and you are not my home.
We are not connected; I don't even know this demonic Wraith;
If I met you on the street today, I'd never bother to relate.
If empathy and caring can never truly shine,
Then where the hell is mercy for the mothers left behind?
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