mother’s day

The quilted forehead

rivets running in wrinkles only a daughter’s skin can flex like this.

In the jarring way to mirror her mother’s grimace — we are all meant to

fade into our creator.

Not god, but the woman before her.

We all meet our mother before we meet god, and

god has never treated me

half as kindly

or

half as cruelly.

The guilt of the only child.

The guilt of the bastard.

The guilt of the fetus now walking and old enough to know

she was the railroad tie turned inwards

that caused the crash.

And these days i see her in my face.

i see her in the smoke from my cigarettes,

in the piles of trash on the kitchen floor.

I see her in the reflection cast in my daughters’ eyes

when they look at me, still in their state of half-understanding.

Mom, who were you meant to be before me?

Who was I meant to be before my own get?

Will I ever stop feeling the pain of one thousand lifetimes I will never see —

How did you suture the wound that was me?

Do you hate me like I hate me?

Will she hate me like I hate you?

Do they bruise at my nonchalance — at my absent stare

at every tear they see track across my face?

Would they be better if I gave into the flora

felt the worms pick my bones dry and gave them a slab

of concrete to project

all they hoped I’d be?

Instead of one day a year

when they realize

all they wished I was?