my mother shoved words into my mouth
she fed me whenever i cried
and as the obedient kid that i was,
i learned to nibble on every word
and swallowed them as i should.
now that i'm older,
my stomach has ran acid
ーit burns my chest and i would still feel them
foam inside my mouth as if
every word were told just yesterday.
how can i truly love my mother
if she couldn't feed me
when i was hungry for something else?
i cried again with my heart wide open
as my knees wobble in fear
of how exposed i was in front of her.
but this time,
i guess she couldn't hear me enough.
it was silentーshe couldn't feed me anything,
for not a single word left her mouth.
she watched me intently
as i detach the cord from both of our bodies.
     i wasn't the daughter she loved anymore,
     but she was still the mother i loved.

You showed me heaven, but it smelled of sulfur.
You taught me love, but it wasn't the same shade.
You explained my body to me, and how it was reactive, sinful.
You told me my life was not my own. It was a part of a plan. Who's plan?
Oh yeah, "God's plan". The most powerful force ever to exist without being seen. Always to be feared and submitted to and never to be questioned.

How could you expect a child to survive in such a repressed state?
A place with no autonomy, no freedom, no love?

I planted my faithful mustard seed and was surprised when it couldn't grow without warmth, nutrients, and water. Funny how science can explain why this phenomenon happened, but God just remains silent.
Always so silent.

If I am deaf and blind, why has He not chosen me to be healed? What could a child have done to be forsaken?

~
lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.

blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.

her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.
~

lack of future preparation - inherit debris fields of neglect




Mark Toney © 2022

Do not sit
So close to
The TV;
It'll make
You cruel