Thirsting Spirits

I said once
that the only protection
she could give me
was a sharp and shattered heart.
Did it break hers
when she broke mine?
or was it a relief when my own
jagged pieces
drove her further away,
when there was no longer the demand
to hold,
to care,
to comfort.
To mirror the mirror
that she shattered.
Perhaps in the end
that was the mirroring
she needed to have,
her own brokenness
reflected back at her.
I only wish I could have known
the her I see before me…
that little half smile speaking
of enchantment,
engrossed in my hand
in the weight of me in her arms.
I think I would give anything
if I could have been born
something else.
I know I would give everything
if I could have been born
as something she could love
enough to love herself,
enough to heal her grief,
the swaddling that became my shroud
as though in killing me
she could release those parts of herself
she could not bear to be.
That was never my burden,
my mother. Still, I wish I could gather
all your sharp and shattered pieces,
could bring you together again,
whole and wholehearted.
I must instead hold you
as you were
and in so doing learn
to hold my own sharp and shattered self,
to allow the blood to run clean,
to allow myself a gift of seeing
all that terrified you in me,
all I fear most to find,
all I know not how to be.