Mamma (Poem)

Peddling my poetic disarray

for two feet planted

on the ground,

and a phantom,

this limb, like a ghostly part,

absent, yet heavily nearby,

like the smell of magnolias

on the opaque, sweat stained air

of a crescent city.

I told you lavender is sweet,

but must be used sparingly.

But the evening primrose will heal,

and milk thistle,

like the dark herbal tea,

always in that blue china cup you brought me from Metarie.

And I am blushing.

The sky is blushing, too.

I lied,

when I said I left your voice in that other city,

a past passed by, yet,

I can still hear your peal of laughter,

like the engine clang when my car broke down in front

of that Baptist church,

somewhere outside of Athens.

And the sign said 'The Savior Saves,"

and so the preacher man tried to push

my skirt up around my belly button,

like you always said they would.

So, I got no concept of a savior

because all you ever tied to crosses

was me,

a stigmata like a birth mark.

And sometimes my brain conjures stage lights,

and everyone is watching,

you too,

like I'm the girl in point shoes and a tutu,

dripping from Edgar's canvas.

But only falling,

like you said I would,

a ballerina toppled in tulle and tears,

a skinned knee,

a heap of pink,

and blood.

There will always be blood,

she said,

you will always bleed for the things you never got.

But I have something strange underneath, now mamma,

a monster taller,

but with the same brown eyes,

excavating building sites,

and unlocking doors with old house keys,

across oceans and continents.

I've grown intrepid,

and somehow care both

more and less.

Because passive and patient never made me wise,

it just made me more like a patient

ready

for the same ward they put you in.

bvk, 2020