I don’t know
if my mother held me
when I cried.
I may have been left in my room
with the moonlight
to muffle my sobs,
while she hummed a tune
and swept the floor,
hushing the voices…
Hug her.

            Her skinny legs
            would shuffle across the floor
            when I was 13,
            and she danced to Barry white
         My first, my last, my everything…
            My mother didn’t laugh much
            but this was so fun.

            I watched from down the hall,
            her dark brown perm
            flipping with every sway.
            She snapped her long fingers
            to the beat.
            I wished she was singing to me.
            I wanted to be
            her first, her last, her everything.

I don’t know why
I’d rather not be held
when I cry.
But my mother does.
I sit alone in my room
and watch my reflection
crumble in the mirror.
I talk to myself
to hush the voices…
Call her.


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