Mother – your first child died at 19.
She was depressed and hopeless
and wouldn’t have made it past 20.
She was stillborn
and lived without life
for 19 years
until the demons released
her like a balloon sent
up to the clouds.
They released her with a smile
having squeezed everything out of her
raped her, drained her.
They sent her up flat and listless
with just enough air to float.
Feel relieved, Mother.
She was embraced, taken under wings
as soft as warm snow
like feathers under a heat lamp.
Loved and gathered like lilies.
It was then, Mother, that I was born.
I stand tall, your other
daughter a mere shadow.
Do not mourn her
I love you far better, I love you far more.

11/25/2004

Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky