Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 19, 2009

First Words

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

Do you have any poems about mother's personality?because I need some poem for the coming of mother's day for my mom. Pacquiao vs Bradley Live Streaming

Posted by: jorgebosh at May 7, 2012 04:15 AM
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