My mother hated me
the way I looked at her through my father’s pale eyes
the independent insurgence of a being
where she wanted a porcelain-faced doll
with peachy cheeks and white stark cold skin
who never blinked at her vulnerability
or turned from her naked cruelty
My mother wanted a soft myna bird
to echo back
I love you
I love you
I love you
across that battered orange formica table
as my father’s hand danced under my skirt
My mother hated me
horrified as she was of
dirty things…
human need,
bits of life and grit and greed
the everpresent residue of all our shame
at being caught together, tangled in the brokenness
pinned down to each other
rusty needles baring our misery
My mother hated dirty things…
it would get under her nails
she’d wash
cringe
wash
again.
she never could get me out from under those
pale
peach
nails.
It turned her stomach
I saw it rolling
over in her eyes
as the brush in her hand
raked violent jerky tumbles
over my knotted auburn
brambles
she never really got out those knots of me
all balled up in her throat
I heard her cough against them every night
she just smoothed the
hair on top
the incessant evidence of her ineptitude
at keeping me clean
and neat
and straight
and hers
My mother hated me
I bled
I breathed
I needed
all over her
clean fragility
She never could let herself
believe
wish
dream
that I’d loved her for always
anyways
even with the
blood and filth of my virginity
under her dirty nails