To my Mother, on her 65th birthday

You died at fifty

and now the friends I have are nearing that age

what a strange thing

to realize now, how young you really were

Remember

how you and dad used to call each other dear

and my ears are still fucked up for most of the year

and the ear doctor is still my enemy

even though 2 years ago they gave me a concoction of things to do

a remedy of sorts

I wish I could tell you that I’ve stopped contorting myself for others

but I am working really hard

to stay my most honest shape

I am a Mother

a title I will never escape

and I feel so thankful how you told the truth about motherhood

that it pushes every button inside

and it never feels easy

you were never the cheesy type

but I love my kids fiercely —as you loved me

I can remember you saying “your life won’t be your own”

and I hang onto those words

the truth they hold

how I put my body on loan

I have promised myself that I will be known by my kids

that I will show Dorothy and Alf, my soul

that my role is to model real and truth and change

I pray to all the gods that I make it to 50 years of age

hoping my insides don’t stop rearranging in there until they find what feels right

I’ve never been able to write to you

too much pressure to find the words that fit

then committing to them and putting them on paper

but here I sit

writing to my Mother

to the shaker of hips

to the thin lips we share

to her evil eye stare

to the burned skin on her thigh

the way I learned to carve pumpkins on the last night of your life

and when we awoke you “passed away”

I hate how people say that

don’t try and make it nice

it feels like a lie

no

she died.

and everything broke

and I choked on the grief

soaked in the anxiety of anything could be taken

I still feel shaken

but I’ve put my straightener down

and embraced the daughter that my Mother knew me to be

letting me knees get scraped by life

peeing in the woods when I hike

saying, I am more than just ‘good’

You were more than just good, Mom

You are the womb in which I am from

you are the warm sun rays displayed on the walls of our house

you are “my Carolina” the call I miss the most

you are my Mother

and I can’t boast about you enough

and today is your birthday

I don’t know what to say to end this rhyme

other than

this won’t be my last time

(October 26, 2009)