April 19, 2009
My mother spoke to me
early; I was swaddled in words.
“Will I? Am I? Do you think”
she said, until I understood these
were questions I was being asked.
I took my mother in soft mouthfuls
emitted to me alone in a room.
I heard my own name and kicked
free of myself like a knitted boot.
My mother spoke to me all the time.
She wept and cast me to the ground
like dice, until fate changed one day
and I not only listened, but heard.
It was summer on the prairies.
Locusts sang, until in their winter
silence, I could ﬁnally speak back.
My mother spoke to me, but it was
long before I understood that
although she was saying “daughter”,
what she meant was “sister”, and
the only one listening was me.
Posted by delire at April 19, 2009 02:13 PM