Anomaly

On my mother, me and the women we are in between

she is an anomaly,
a speck in time,
her defiance within boundaries,
so quiet,
in small acceptable doses,
that you did not notice.

between the fold of bed sheets
that smell like lemon,
and tea spiced with ginger,
she weaves her dreams
in colours that
you and I cannot see.

she is a contradiction,
the old plaguing the new,
is she the old or is she the new
she doesn’t know
and neither do you.

she is independent,
dependent on a world that makes the rules,
you don’t have to follow, she told me once,
but they will judge you, judge me, judge us,
are you ready?

she could be a tornado or a storm
a tsunami, an avalanche,
I have felt her hunger,
tasted her rage,
a fleeting glimpse of emotions
that sputter and die,
like the last light of the non-scented candle
she lights up at night.

she is my mother,
she is a sister, wife, friend, daughter,
carefully defined roles,
an artist’s curation,
this is how you will see me
she is firm in her belief,
this is how I see her,
in relation to others
in relation to me
nothing more.

what would she be
if she peeled away the layers,
the sting of pungent onion
raw, pink, sweet
would the core be hollow
like the vegetable she hates cutting?
would we need to cook it on low flame,
simmer it in butter and spices
to bring out her flavour?
I will never know,
And neither will she.

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I wrote this in response to a prompt at the

Ochre Sky Stories

writing circle - a space that has allowed me to navigate and explore my writing in more ways than I can count.

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