Poem | Mother

Through the silken haze of red, pink, blue,

and all since

I have breathed what she gave me;

nourished and nurtured on the feast of warmth

which is both cave and atmosphere.

Past the liquefied emotions and

power in the emergence;

she worries I am no longer hers

as she can no longer hide me from the threat.

No longer can she used her skin as an armour,

building barriers of bone and flesh,

stretched and cracked.

But I am my mother in each inhale

and exhale when i cry.

I am her skin,

shades altering and pulled to the day

but still hers when i catch it in that mirror

in that place she was photographed, age 6.

I was a dream then, but still there.

Still here when a hand brushes her stomach,

changed like a landscape after a storm,

A field in rejuvenation.

I am my mother  each time my bones ache with

the growth;

pulsing out a prayer to the god

that turns to me and smiles,

waiting to hear the door open.