The Mother Ghost
Overbearing Observations
Cottony threads of maternal webs
spun out of control and fear
for her own preservation
Her terror at the sight of you
always the back of your head
her anger and pain
always clapping at you
pushing you farther away
Tsunami rage building
a tidal wave teeming with
contempt and retrospection
foaming with misplaced
concern, regret, and hope
that you can still love her
She never meant to hurt you
Did she?
Has she expected you to repay her
to counteract a balance you can never achieve?
A bankruptcy affording you years of silent debt
escaping eternal condemnation at her hands?
You surf on tides of fire
proclaiming independence from day one
before you were born, the contract signed
was never to have her name on it
yet somehow she was the vessel
she became the Mother Ghost
About the Creator
Carole Anzolletti
Creativity has always saved me from getting lost in the tide of the world and has put me in touch with a like-minded tribe who can come down to the depths I once felt were solitarily my own. Surviving and thriving creatively are promises.
Keep reading
More stories from Carole Anzolletti and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.