About My mother

I must have believed

at least for a time

that those yellowed teeth

were

sponges pregnant

                      with (some

                      type) of truth

         for,

         although I remember no joy in anticipation,

the lack of delivery

         birthed in me,

a hard and

bitter wisdom.

my sisters,

they were

          knobby-kneed and clumsy,

flocking like seagulls

to the stain

of her

waterless words(

           fuzzy headed baby chicks in the

           swirling cycle of her hand)

Whose sores

sting more?

the  newborn aware for the need of weapons,

who learned to spew poison,

and pushed even milk away?

Or the sparkly eyes

that skipped and

smiled

unexpectantly

                 until the day

their hearts and heads

would come to bleed

in the guillotine

of

reality?

Perhaps

Ignorance is only bliss

If it never  gets unveiled