a poem

Some mothers equip their daughters with love

while others withhold it:

an absence black as moonless night

LIGHT a torch

you carry

into the darkest nights of your rage


Some mothers fix things

sickness, broken skin, broken hearts

while other mothers teach

what it feels like to walk broken


If love was a desert

and you are lost in it

Some mothers love like sips of water

while others, in their absence, inflict the will to survive


Some mothers cook, soothe, satiate,

while others teach that the hunger is its own kind of power


Some collect fruits and bake pies

while others inflict a raw, hard truth

hard enough to sharpen the blades of a machete

which you use as a tool


BELOVED daughter, grab your weapon

both hands, have no fear

hack through what is dying

let it catch fire

until you come to the clearing

a grove,

where you will find your own fruit



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