brilliant and beautiful

her skin is an ivory delicate, like her mother's. she wears rings
with blue jewels on hands that remind of my own, prefers smaller
portions and quiet rooms. sleeps only on expensive sheets, loves
her dog. and what a shock that she would ever have been young,
would have ever made mistakes, drank too much, fallen out of
love. but i've seen the pictures, and i know it's true. and on those
nights that i arrived too late, twisted and pubescent, she offered
me the warmer half of her bed, a glass of water, a glass of wine.
she read to me stories, of art and promise, cleaned and steamed
vegetables and served them on a proper plate with an anecdote.

she is often tired. spends her days fighting demons i've yet to meet.
but despite the battles that leave her wounded and thirsty, she never
fails to answer the phone, to undertsand. she would run through a
burning forest to comb my hair, rub my back, tell me that we're okay.
and i would like her to know that i haven't forgotten the times
she was collapsed and oblivious, raging. the times she was gone,
lost amidst the battling rats of a terrible childhood dream. and god,
how i'd like to kill them all. slit their throats and watch them bleed
litres for every tear she wept in the next room. but i haven't
the constitution and she has taught me that it isn't a solution,
after all. she is good like that.

and as she reads this grand thank you card of a mother's day poem,
i would like very much for her to know that i have never loved
anyone with as much honesty as i love her. her teeth, her smile.
the things she's told me a hundred times before and tells me
again. she called me a goddess once. gave me money she didn't
have. listened to my hateful highschool rants and proceeded to buy
me a prom dress. knew my lies. knew me. i love her a thousand
times and forever.

she is brilliant, beautiful, my mother.