I was in the back seat
of Great Aunt Nell's
SUV,
my face nearly pressed
to the window
on some back road
in northeast Mississippi.
I turned to speak to --
you weren't there.
I forgot
this was the status quo.
There are places you will never go,
where I will venture, alone.
Another argument with my brother,
twenty years coming out to play --
a side of me I don't want you to see
because there are too many sad,
angry moments haunting the scene.
I will cradle a raw
vulnerability that I will give to you
to have and to hold,
hoping you will
love and cherish
these wounds. please
don't shy away
when I flinch,
I promise
it's a reflex -- a protective measure
I will fight for you.
These are my oldest friend,
and they have never
been exposed
before.
one day my womb will grow,
and even though that baby will
be ours,
motherhood will dig
her claws into me
when you won't see,
drawing out tendons drenched in tears,
marrow filled with martyrdom,
an anatomy made of anxiety.
marring me from the woman you knew
to this new beast: a mother,
a mystery.
I stared out the window,
watching the Mississippi landscape.
an emptiness spread in as
the future stretched out before me.
a ghost I knew;
a ghost I hadn't met.
You,
not yet.
