M.A. Morris – Preserving chance of bright places from legacy of shadows
“Mama, why have I not ever seen you cry?”
How do I even try?
Do I say it is the miles of years
Walking with shadows?
Seeing the scars that crisscross her arms,
I know she needs to know how I lived in shadows,
Of how it is to live with such fears
As the white noise of my mother’s voice,
Ever constant in my brain,
Of how it is I thought it
Protection I shrouded her within
To pretend there are only bright places.
My lies as answers
To her endless questions
Of how I have scars
Upon my back,
A legacy of a mother broken
By poverty from which she raised herself
To money and business
Only to have the wings of her dreams
Burned to cinders by the heat of circumstances,
Plummeting then to live once again within
The prison poverty made.
Yes, my daughter,
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