What She Gave and Took
She taught me to pray
with hands that bruised the bread
and sometimes, me.
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon,
but the corners were quiet with grief.
I was loved--loudly, then not at all.
Her laugh could warm
a whole December,
but silence followed when I needed June.
She carried me like gospel,
until I questioned her scripture.
Then, I became her quiet sin.
Still--
I make her biscuits in the same bowl,
sing her lullabies to my own child,
and when I cry,
I still hide it in the pantry.
Line count: 20.
Free verse format.
Title: 5 words or fewer.
Oscillating emotions: check.
Perspective: child.
Tone: honest, restrained, poignant.
Author’s Note:
This poem is for the many mothers who tried, and the children who learned to love them with both gratitude and grief. My mom was a good woman in many ways, but not everything was easy. I wrote this for the moments that shaped me--both warm and hard--and for the child who once cried quietly behind a closet door.
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