Mama came home, I can tell. the trailer walls
are shaking down,
that pumping bass line stereo is thumping loud,
beating the ground...
I know there's monsters under floors I'm creeping over,
and god knows they'll stick sharp needles in my toes
if I dare make a sound...
but Mama's home, and I just want to sneak one peek,
not even speak, just make sure she's come back for me...
then I'll go lay back down.
Mama's sleepy, I can tell, her friends are finally
going home,
and as they're leaving, her voice drops much softer, lower,
"Lock the door...."
So I lie in bed and wait for her to come investigate,
but she and he continue gait
past my closed bedroom door...
Mama came home; I'm forgotten, so I lay face down to soften
burning tears that fall too often, that make her
hate me more.
Mama's tired, I can tell, her footsteps are slow,
stumbling,
and in the bathroom sink I hear things tumbling,
drunk fumblings,
and finally when she's in the hall, the footsteps pause
outside my wall, and softly through the closed door, calls out,
"Jenny, I love you," and goes back down the hall
but that is all it took when I was 2
to make me love her like a child's supposed to do. |
Submission Name: Being Mama vs. Mothering
