I am Older Than my Mother

A poem about my mom

She lives in my face
and three photographs on the wall.
I can still remember her shape—
missing, always missing.
She who birthed and fed me.
She who wanted to run away with me in utero.
She who loved me enough to make everyone remember.

When I had lived longer
Than her age of death—
six before the Jesus year—
crisis found me.
It’d always been in her
shadow of death that I was now
coming to outgrow.

(Do you outgrow love?)

My shadow is longer than hers
and she is in my wake,
still shaping my history
while I carve out a future,
watching children be born,
and feeding them,
and wondering how it felt for you.

I want to love her in my face,
like meeting a stranger
I’ve always wanted to know,
holding out gleaned knowledge
as an offering of peace
as I approach with hesitation
her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks.

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