Who are you, Woman?

I do not know the woman

I only know of this ---

She is the hand resting lightly on my shoulder,

becoming the language no longer needing

the soft swish of letters.

She is the song that lulls me into a dream,

where upon waking, I find the sky is mine for the taking.

She is the rain masking my tears,

leaving a trail of kisses as I take back

my heart in need of mending.

She is the words I weave into a poem

bespoke of courage and strength.

She is love forged between weak links,

supped over broken phone lines and

hurried text messages.

She is my mother, the woman I do not know.

Save for her beauty, her serene acceptance

of the daughter who will not have become her.

I must surrender what little I know of her

what little I understand,

when what we have

is the absence of sight.

And what we try to do

is fill the void with sounds

of bodies being forced to injure/endure

shared time and space apart.

----

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I may not say this as often as the gods or you or me would like but you know I love you, right? Oh, and I'm sorry if I do not answer back after a particularly horrid night at the office. It kills me, you know, how to the ladies I love/particularly like I am so available but to you... Shame on me. I am working on it, Mama. I am. Because all this time --- It's been always you and me.