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.†  
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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