Mother's Mother

A poem about my mother's mother, grandmother, who was quite the villian, quite the shrew, to my mother and her sister.

Hair of ebony, skin of ivory,

she lived in a minority; full of valor.

Soft roars rumble beneath the land;

"Mother has come home again," sister said.

Smiling that glorious smile, never icy or unnatural,

"Don't fret, don't distress, the drink is all she knows."

 

Starving for thirst under summer's sun,

Under Winter's gun, she thirsted for that same sun.

Hopeless under both seasons, the moon had little redemption for both.

Listening to soft hymnals leak from god's home,

"Mother has finally departed," sister said.

Smiling that glorious smile, never selfish or corrupted,

"Don't fret, don't distress, the drink is all she knew."

 

Years past, memories sold off for the lowest cent,

She handed gold to the bartender, signing away her sobriety.

Throwing back vodka, beads of guilt hung on her lips,

Still resilient enough to say, "I'll never be that woman."

Looking to the entrance; she sighed. All the blondes cry,

"Mother still lives; Mandate your bulwarks!" sister cried.

Smiling that glorious smile, never misleading or unblunt,

"Don't fret, don't distress, the drink is all for you."

 

Sitting in a circle, with life's greatest gifts, mother spoke,

"Hair of fair gold, hair of culpable obsibian, I love."

Photographs grasped in a palm of a picker's hardships,

Valleys of wheat in which the daughters slaved through,

And the endless nights of identities being whipped and smeared;

the daughters spoke,"Don't fret, Don't distress, but your love is not enough."

 

Smiling that glorious smile,

Never to be ruptured or altered.

Author's Note

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