Mother

An accompaniment piece to Daisy

The walk to the not-quite-house was winding and silent.

What they once called fine spun gold was now a dreary mess of just hair

And rough skin was more purpled with plum kisses than peachy. 

I walked the path for my mother.

The woman that burdened and bound her precious flower to life,

The woman that spoke ‘I love you’ and ‘you ruined me’  

in one breath.

The woman walked the same insidious path,

Knew the agony of the damp whispers of pleasure

and had their blackened imprints on her soul too.

And even then had the audacity to live.

I remember anticipating her arrival

on the same humiliating dirt road.

She clutched the cold coins in haggard accomplishment

and she smiled at me.

Just a broken woman

who loved me.