Adventures in Poetry

Eucharist: or what to say to your mother to let you save her life
we are the same color
a bittersweet kind of caramel that groans mahogany in the summer
flash of sunset beneath the skin
we both sing like Savannah
5 foot 4 with small hands
wide feet
and bad knees
pound for pound
we have the same body
my mother
hurricane of a woman
spun sugar and rice into Sunday meals
after giving her last in an offering plate
so god would not go hungry
asked permission to carry communion wafers
gone stale from service to service
home to serve us as Monday supper
she said we were blessed
with an honor like this
"it is his body"
she'd say
"broken for us
and as always we give him thanks
you always remember you carry his name
don't ever forget you wear my face"
side by side we look like sisters
for a moment
until subtle differences take shape
the gray in her locks
the hollow in her throat
the shadow in her eye that does darken with age
she's seen a lot now
done a few things perhaps as a child she swore she wouldn't
perhaps even more she couldn't have known would ever warrant such a promise
most of those
in the name of our father
who was in denial about most things
she hid his needles
hid his anger
taught his children not to hate him
love like hers is made in the quiet space of being rocked away to sleep
by arms so frail
one tear might cause the weighed snap of bone through dreams
it's battle scarred
and iron tipped
beaten bloody more times than we'd like to remember
her body a patchwork quilt reminder of every time stood up for her children
each scar a story more severe then the next
a bruise will tell you what the beating meant
and these days there is something
not unlike midnight trying to snatch the sunlight from beneath her skin
it is her body
turned in on itself
like some kind of flesh to bone civil war
beaten back with pills
and prayer
and second opinions that all seem to say the same thing
seem to say that the pain she kept tucked in the pit of her belly is finally trying to break free
a current of poison that courses through veins
that river her wrists much like my own
you cannot tell her not to be a hero
she does not understand what that means
nor understand my stance on being the one to give her the donations she needs
"it is my body"
i say
"broken for you
my way of giving thanks
a new testament in bone ground to the dust
for the honor of wearing your face
it is no sacrifice
it's what you would do
and i still carry your name
one hurricane woman to another
to satisfy
your cry for rain"

---
Peace Be