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Mother, my mother, I no longer recall the sweet sound of your voice as you rocked me to sleep in the fold of your arm. The pitch is long forgotten, covered by noises of my life now — the smooth baritone of my love, the crunch of powder snow under a firm boot, the lilting melody of my violin. Mother, my mother, I cannot feel the warm embrace you must have given me before leaving me to my fate. It was summer, and yet I remember no smothering heat of a clasp to your ***** — only the sweltering that happened wrapped in my blanket in a ditch at the side of the road under the relentless sun. Mother, my mother, I have no more memories of the homeland where I was born. You are a distant shadow hidden in the recesses of my mind, but you are fading — fading into the corners, blending with all my other uncertainties. I think I used to know, but I blank when I try to remember further than the years I’ve been here in America. Mother, my mother, I do not know even the smallest detail of my former life. “What have I been writing?” I am a poet, mother. I used my imagination.
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Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 3:41 AM UTC
letter to my mother
Mother, my mother, I no longer recall the sweet sound of your voice as you rocked me to sleep in the fold of your arm. The pitch is long forgotten, covered by noises of my life now — the smooth baritone of my love, the crunch of powder snow under a firm boot, the lilting melody of my violin. Mother, my mother, I cannot feel the warm embrace you must have given me before leaving me to my fate. It was summer, and yet I remember no smothering heat of a clasp to your ***** — only the sweltering that happened wrapped in my blanket in a ditch at the side of the road under the relentless sun. Mother, my mother, I have no more memories of the homeland where I was born. You are a distant shadow hidden in the recesses of my mind, but you are fading — fading into the corners, blending with all my other uncertainties. I think I used to know, but I blank when I try to remember further than the years I’ve been here in America. Mother, my mother, I do not know even the smallest detail of my former life. “What have I been writing?” I am a poet, mother. I used my imagination.
#adoption
Written by
scrittora
F/Earth
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 3:41 AM UTC
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