A Look Inside my Poetry

 

 

I often refrain from sharing my poems out of fear, but there is no longer room for that. Both poems are very dear to me and the first is one that I wrote for my mother a few years ago. The second, is a poem that came to me last summer. I hope that you enjoy and feel free to share.

 

A Daughter With Two Hands

 

There are butterflies in my stomach as I write this.

I have hoped for a day that I could exclaim my love for my mother, and now I can.

Without remorse.

 

After years of anger and pain, I have learned the art of forgiveness.

I cringe as I remember the days of my rudeness and disrespect.

I am not sure if it was my moving away that made me appreciate our relationship, but

I now understand how imperative it is for me to form a bond with my birther.

 

I was angry for so long.

And I am sorry.

 

I want us to have an unbreakable bond.

I want to be able to look at my mother and view her as my best friend.

To be able to say “I tell my mother everything.”

I want to have the bond with my mother, that my mother was never able to have with hers.

 

If I am ever to bear children, I want them to have a bond with their mother as I have with mine.

I want my children to know that they have a grandmother who loves her oldest born as much as the ocean loves the shore.

 

I want my children to know that their grandmother has an imperfect first child.

 

That their mother has held anger in her heart for years. That their mother has learned to forgive.

I want my children to know that I cried while writing to her.

I want my children to know that I would give everything I have to ensure my mother's happiness, because I know that she’d do the same for me.

 

If I am to ever bear children. I hope to have a child with two hands.

One hand for giving love and

The other for receiving.

 

You have a daughter with two hands.

Two hands that are molding together a once broken bond.

Two hands that hold the hands of a mother's love.

An Offering

 

Pass me the sponge.

I can see the dirty plates in the sink.

You attempt to scrub away the specks of food on the plate in your hand.

I take it.

Give me your hands.

I can do the work from here.

 

Your palms are faced upwards and I can see the toll the water has taken on them.

Soft, yet taut.

I rub them until my hands are soaked from the fruits of your labor.

 

Water is not only on our hands now.

Tears flow from our cheeks

Hit our chests and then the floor until we are swimming in a sea of angst and regret.

‘I am sorry’ is echoed back to me.

Forgiveness is screamed at the top of our lungs until we are breathless,

 

And our bodies collide and fall into the depths of wanting each other to be perfect.

 

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