My mother keeps a poem <br />That I wrote when I was <br />More than a child, but <br />Not yet a Woman. <br /> <br />In it, I praised her motherly ways <br />And calm hand - <br />Claiming that she was <br />The delight of my life and <br />My central love - <br />I lied. <br /> <br />What I had wanted to say, <br />What I needed to say - <br />Was to scream out for protection- <br />For her to run with me <br />To the hills, and borrow in deep. <br /> <br />I did not tell the secrets, even <br />In the thick of the lies <br />Where even a good eraser <br />Would not have dug them out. <br />What I needed was for her <br />To love me <br />More <br /> <br />To love me enough <br />To save me from the holes <br />I sensed opening up in <br />The vodka misted ground <br />A fog raising up from the <br />Ground of lecherous stares <br />And saliva dripped from a <br />Mouth that wasn't mine or hers, <br />To save me from the monster <br />In the closet, that opens <br />The door, that opens my legs <br />That opens my mouth <br />Pushing the dirt away <br />Tamped in by taunting voices <br />And love withheld. <br /> <br />She didn't. <br />And I didn't. <br />And somehow, <br />I survived anyway.<br /><br />Charlotte Ballard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mother-s-day-poem-4/
