Sometimes I remember the scorn of my family, Effigies of bloodlines crossed into a tired face. I remember my mother, Her vice was appearance- Not her own but that of others. Every day was judgment She’d pick us before we bloomed and left wilted children Questioned the lack of fruit Not with self-deprecation but with scorn How dare we cross the farmer who sowed the seeds and watered the crops? How dare we look towards the sky for comfort? When that cold trowel could dig in our necks.
I remember one time my mother asked me if she was the problem A lie, I’ve heard that question many times How can you curse a broken human more than she does herself And somewhere in my head, I justify it Consider the kindness built on vanity to be kindness nonetheless Flowers do not need to be alive to be beautiful They can be so frailed and dried up they become immortal A crumbling tombstone of decay And we marvel at them And I remember that I am a product of my mother