6/12/2020

We are old women
the children of our mothers
We share our memories
Talk about them 
Mothers and the fathers
How they were
how held us
how they couldn’t
how hurt or comforted
How we held or did not
hold the children of our own.
What particular scar each of us acquired,
How we wounded
what injuries were sustained
Who went wrong
Who is forgiven

My mother held me crying
In her lap without penalty
offered her thighs soft pillows
to cry into
vowed to walk to Jerusalem
on her knees
And I am whole and grateful
She is forgiven every other fault
though I carry them

The mothers and the fathers
and the children are fashioned
in an endless chain
Each loop arising from the last
carrying its beauty and
its imperfection.

We are old women
We have children
They are mothers
We are children