the phoenix

Mama birthed me two weeks late
in a room full of family, grumbling,
and that’s how it’s been ever since.
Me, late; her, grumbling.
She’ll talk s**t about me to my
face and praise me behind my back
to everybody else.
Sounds like hazing but it’s transparent
initiation into a multi-cultural family

Didn’t sense until I was ten
that some people out there tried
to break her into a ghost.
Did not have the words to even tell
her I knew.
Mama treated me gentle, like I was
a porcelain doll, but she talked
like she expected me to turn
into a phoenix, gloriously
basking in victories hard won
from my predecessor, from
people who want to watch me burn.
Mama didn’t need to tell me
that bad habits can be people
and she did not want future bad habits
spinning me into a phantom.

But Mama didn’t know then, and she
won’t acknowledge now, that between
us she is the phoenix.
Started with barebones and a broken family
and made something out of the ashes.
The great aunt tore her down and
it was as though Mama never knew
about that kind of betrayal until I asked.

I’ve learned I can’t bear some family
members’ presence.
Mama feels a similar way - we don’t like some
of what they’ve down, sweet girl, but
we still love them.
But she acts like she was sad about
bearing the weight of their
absence when we see these paper doll people.
Never taught me how to fix
an acquaintance-like relationship
with this side of the family.
I may have an option but I don’t know
if I want a mended fence.
It don’t be like that with me and them.

But it’s like that between Mama and I; we keep
mending and minding our own
fences.
She rises up from the dead all the time.
Mama tries to teach me to do that;
she tries to plant a phoenix insider her
writing porcelain doll.