~
In the mist of late night solitude,
                 from a mislaid plateau,
                 with a suitcase full of sparks

She observes constellations
        reflected as little needy eyes,
                        peering down at her

They could be midnight directives,
       postcards from distant nebula
                            suspended in gaffa

       "Ne t'enfuis pas..." She exhales

Still she wonders:

        will her children grow to love
          their perfect machines more
                                    than they love
                  their imperfect mother?
~

My hair is a mess of antennae-
Each piece picks up static of days
dead and gone.

I run through the noise with unmanned hands- feeling the weight of each lock.

Where’s the golden child?
The girl with a head full of health?
Of ringlets
yet to be devoured by time, sweat and dissonance.

As I drift I hear the voice of my mother fading- her chord was cut and motioned off-air in the wake of new administration.

Memories trapped in the roots of straightened strands. Her signal comes through as a muffled cry:

“These ends may be swept away,
but my music will still play
through your stereo.”

she opened her handbag and
tipped the contents onto the floor --
a pack of gum, a lip gloss, a torn
wrapper of a Used ******, a gun --
a .38 stub nose --
my purse! she gasped --
all her night's earnings and a doctor's prescription,
Gone!
she gave out a huge -- sigh --
how can one never win even for at least
once. once!
her infant cried. she carried her
in her cold arms, as she cried with her in
short sobs.
she Cursed
under her breath

Scene one, Childhood

I never really learned to emotionally regulate,
Taking clues from Nickelodeon more than parents who set good examples,
Screaming fights and bruises and broken glass
Too much drinking, the smell of cigarettes
Moms broken bones
Make yourself small, make yourself gone
They may not notice you.

We played family a lot, curtaining blankets over a bunk bed to block the outside, and in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene two, 18

I never really learned to emotionally regulate, taking clues from the friends around me more than parents who set any example.
A false father leaving, a mom losing her cash cow
The smell of Arbor Mist and ***** still makes me sick, mom’s incoherent fists still make contact in my sleep, I still wouldn’t have given her the keys.

We don’t play anymore. We’re mostly estranged. But we work. And in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene three, 28

I’m trying to learn to emotionally regulate, the slideshow of couches and faces of therapists trying to set an example.
A son born to trauma, a marriage of consequence, I’m still learning to love myself, please, the sound of yelling still makes me sick,
I don’t know how to do this.

We are grown now, we are mostly put together. And now we live. But this is my family, and I will always take care of my babies

The husband of the mother is presumed
          to be the father of the child.
We think it best that one man should be doomed
          to bear the risk the seed is wild.

A summer evening in late June, light paling into dusk and colours lessen
Rattles from the kitchen as the ritual teas are prepared
I sit making a cardigan for a baby’s birth-

Knowing what it is to be a mother, I think of she who will carefully fasten the buttons
She who will, like me, cry at the news nowadays and lay her hands on a softly breathing body to find peace

Here I sit, fingers hitching and flicking  the yarn between needles
Knitting is a kind of prayer
Each stitch a supplication. Each turn a fresh appeal:
Let this mother meet her baby.
Let this mother meet herself, arriving

The prayer grows, row by row

This mothering is an unhealable wound
This mothering is a cardigan, made to fasten.

Twas wee hours of the morning,
'course she'd come early
she's always been a morning person
yet I never was

so we ushered the morning
in throes of pain and tears
shouts and crying
some of joy, some fear

But as she breathed her first
I found love
and as little hands lay on my chest
I thought,
maybe this morning wasn't so bad