Poem: Mother, I cut the chord.
She is precious. Dark and dangerous and oh so free,
She is everything that everyone aspires to achieve.
And yet, she gets lost in whites lines…
Because they make her feel beautiful and forgetful,
They make her hate and she, even then, is still elegant in smoke and haze.
Precious and painful, she comes to me everyday and every time I beg her to stay,
To share one more moment of her laugh and her life. She taught me how to breathe.
How to walk with ballerinas in my toes and sing with Broadway in my belly
The meaning of loyal… of rare talent and Mexico.
I promised her I’d never age and she promised to never stop loving me.
I didn’t have to promise; it’s in me.
I love her like passion tea in floral china sets and the smell of oil.
More than past lovers, which linger like sweet Chanel Number Five…
I love her beyond boarders and tequila and sheets.
Because she raised me.
She was my mother, my lover, my best friend, my mentor
My goal, my light, my peace and my music.
She is all of those things now, laced with the yellow stains
Of dreams that have run their course and tears on used Kleenexes.
Time seems to slow when we meet, and I shutter to think how much time is lost between us. Distance doesn’t seem to matter but my feet ache
From the walk.
And when he slipped out of the car to buy, I felt my body hum and my fingers tingle because it felt like her, and I couldn’t bite my lip hard enough to keep from
Saying her name- in past tense.
But she’s still my blood, and my heart aches to see her again.
When I stood in our circle, the last for so many of us, I thought of her words
And what she would say if she knew this was the way I was saying goodbye.
I can say we all knew what I was talking about when I thanked her.
When I see her, I can not see the lines between us but the ties.
And I pull them strong with desperate tugs and pleading eyes.
She is the last of my childhood.
I refuse to be robbed of everything good.
She is precious; to me.
