It’s time.

The era of the old white male is over.

We now tell the stories and piece the dreams.

Those on the sidelines know the most integral things.

it’s not for me. i love you, mom.

I heard my mom cry mommy today.

Read it all; this is for her.

 

She described it as only daughters can.

Thin hands as blood drains away;

the sound of death on lips.

She knew, and yet it comes.

 

The dawn, I’d hope to think,

maybe we feel it as stitches:

It’s woven together in our sides,

It’s cloth or some such pulling thing,

Some corset of pain and sorrow; it pulls us together

As we fall apart.

 

Mi madre, maman, mommy:

How can you leave me

Does it all seem to sink?

Oh mom, my mom, my mother;

How can I act but those cubs over bodies

Push wake up push come back push help..!

 

My mother; it’s you- I grieve, but you grieve it all.

 

I wish so much I could make it all better;

I’m good at fantasies; I could help there.

 

But let’s not.

 

You’re hurting; no one can take that away.

No one else will write it or feel it but you.

 

It’s no one’s but yours.