Mothering Mother by Laurie Kolp

September 1, 2015 | By | 1 Reply More

You threw me around like clay on a potter’s wheel
centering me right where you wanted me
molding me well-mannered and classy,
your hands unwilling to give me any slack
as you forced the importance of formal address.
You said I opened a piece of your conscience,
awareness thumbed, a maternal sponge
lapping up all my spills. And I finally succumbed,
formed earthen walls that hardened with each
passing year. There was comfort in that space
alone. You wondered how I got that way— distant,
unemotional. Was it something that you’d done?
I began to rot, sought approval through auspicious
lies from men who promised not to hurt me if I’d only
let them in. Each time I’d fall and close my walls
a little more, sitting on the dirty floor sipping Vodka.
You did this to me, I’d scream at heavy walls taking
one more shot before passing out. But then something
happened. I found you on the ground beside me
wounded and afraid, the cancer wildfire. Without a second
thought, I centered my life around you, caring for you.
I held your hands, wiped up spills. I fed you, bathed you
cried and even laughed with you, those last few months
your final lesson knocking down my bitter walls
and freeing me from resentment once and for all.

Poet Laurie Kolp is the author of Upon the Blue Couch (Winter Goose Publishing, 2014) and Hello It’s Your Mother (Finishing Line Press, October 2015). Follow Laurie @KolpLaurie on Twitter.

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Category: Being, Poetry, United States of America

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  1. Brittany M Young says:

    This gave me soul chills. Thank you.

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