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.

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.