My mother is human.
She has bent around trauma
like a tree grows around a barbed wire fence,
folding the spikes into its skin.
She has twisted
towards the openings in her world where
she can feel some loving sun on her leaves, and
shriveled where infected with insecurity or abuse.
The result is a living sculpture,
beautiful and mercurial,
formed in love and pain.
If you know which limbs are strong,
you can navigate her arms and nestle against her.
I went away too long I think.
When I returned to climb for comfort
rotted branches betrayed me
so I fell
and broke my heart.
HS 8 – 8 -2016