Ivory light adorns her temple,
the morning light a lover
offering a kiss both tender
and betraying;
he will not return,
and she will never be a good mother.
She blushes under the sun's attention,
fingers attempting to brush the worry
away from her eyes;
outside her kitchen window,
children run loudly,
their laughs twinkling bells
in June's gentle symphony
and for a moment,
the war ends, the debtors cease,
the knot unwinds itself
she allows herself to invent a time
where she gifted the names to those laughing,
where shoes topple over each other as they are
tossed by the door and are no longer scrounged
for hurriedly in a still-dark room;
the search,
the abandoning,
is never quiet enough.
She will never been a good mother,
and maybe they know this,
but summer does not
and if she closes her eyes,
the children are in the yard,
not across the street,
and he is only away
to get the morning
coffee.
The father calls the children inside, breakfast waiting.
The song ends, the daydream fades.
She draws the blinds.
It was enough. It was almost enough.
___________________________________
eve's note: I haven't met a day that I haven't started by reaching for an impossible future, a life that can not exist. I worry I'll never be a good mother because I will still be searching for similarities to man my children will never have met. This was inspired by my neighbors, who are loud and content. I think I might hate them for it. As always, love you.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoesíaThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
