Motherwound

Raise your hand
if your make up has been  
irrevocably changed  
by a mother wound.  
 
(this is for you, us, them)  
  
Put your hand on your chest  
if you don't know what a mother wound is. And beat it there if you do  
but it wasn't you it happened to.    
   
Close your eyes,    
stay with me,    
and try to go with the goodness,    
to move with the light.    
   
My Mother had an eye for design,    
traced across crochet curtains,    
French dressing tables,    
kilim rugs,    
welsh dressers,    
queen size victoria beds  
on old wooden boards.    
She had a passion for salvaging  
what otherwise might've been lost.    
Apothecary witch woman,    
this woman was -    
oils, drawers of black bottled scent,    
and the books for how to mix them,    
a perchant for massage,  
to give and to receive.    
Rest your palms on your lap.    
Music,    
the cure,    
pulsing through the body,    
exhaling in the bones  
Nina Simone,    
Tracy Chapman, Blondie and Joan.    
The Ocean Colour Scene.  
We'd dance,    
sway,    
in the lounge, unabashed,    
in a bar on holiday,    
a passion for the unapologetic    
womanhood.    
   
Raise your hand if your Mother had wisdom,  
hold your cheek  
as if that version was all there ever was,    
let her stroke you,    
tender,    
and tonight before you sleep  
make a list  
of just the gifts,    
let those bathe you in gentleness,    
somewhere safe to open your heart  
and know we aren't alone,  
and we were not the reason.