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MY MOTHER'S FACE
1. Adult Pain
Let me feel the pain
as I walk
if I must feel at all,
but don't let me grow
my mother's face.
Let it feel like karate
chops to the throat,
chest, gut & bowel.
Let it knock me down now.
Let it hail on the plains
of my skin.
Let it freeze over
but let the wind change.
Don't let me look
like my mother
& the pain grow
into my face.
It's long slow haul,
topographic, weathered,
face like a map
for the world to trample on.
I rush home to a mirror
looking for signs.
I want my own set of lines.
But already her hands
that have grown
on my body,
are drying up
& twisting
into knots.
They were always too frail
for factory work.
Now it appears that the sun
has gotten to them.
I don't mind
weather worn people.
Just don't want to look
like poverty.
Don't want it
to show on my skin.
Don't want to walk
around
as an advertisement
for pain.
Don't want to look like her.
But I have inherited
how to live & what to feel.
Pain so strong
I can hardly stand upright.
Even in the sun
I bend like a tree.
Hold onto skin
as tough as wood.
Didn't know emotional pain
could be so physical.
Didn't know
it could stop you
from walking in a park. |
