I Don'T Want No Trouble
You were born in December
And you wear your trouble like a rough petrifying plum and carry the sadness of 1000 unsung voices
That's about as much as I know about you
Where are the poems about the sorrows of ordinary people?
You are 23
And gazing upon skyscrapers
You breathed in the air of a new America
And searched for your mother's eyes across the canvas of solemn Church ladies
To deal with your depression, you bought a new air fryer, a CD player and unused glassware that still lingers in the depth of our kitchen cabinets
You won't let us touch it
You are 25
And endure the searing of knuckles into skin
Like pillars of stone
A tightening grip around your neck,
hot breath from lips of silk and honey
You are 31
And your hands can heal broken bones
Ready to intrude upon unsuspecting colds, unsuspecting falls and unsuspecting men
Elegant in their form and function,
they create beauty out of nothing
and hold the bronze black skin of my face with calloused fingertips and so much love summer blooms from my cheeks
Black mother's hands are unyielding
You are 37
You bathe the boys
and groan at the sound of me
You are 38
and sorrow follows you into every room like a dark silhouette
You are 45
and have cut yourself in half
Your body ages
and your anger burns into a seam
Your CD player has broken
It is easy to become a praying woman
“Do you still love me?”
I ask searching, for an answer,
Trying not to beg
Copyright © Abby Habtehans | Year Posted 2023
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