A Rough Draft

I've been working on a few projects, and as one takes over, the others seem to sit by the wayside gathering dust. I've decided to revive this blog as a means to devote equal time to each project. For my Undume work, it will stay primarily on thewanderingcrusader.blogspot.com --shameless plug, I know!--and the remaining work, such as poetry, will remain herein.

Therefore, I've decided to start things off where I left my earlier post on: rough drafts. This particular rough draft was written several months ago, and I find myself coming back to it over and over. In the true sense of being a type of confessionalist poet, I used an ongoing topic that never really goes away for me: my mothers' abandonment of my brother and I. Now, don't be alarmed, she simply left us with our father, which I am thankful for everyday. In truth, it bothers me that it bothers me becuase my Dad was and is everything, both father and mother. I never wanted for anything, and regardless of a few bumps and bruises along the way, I think I am a better person for all that he has taught me. Yet, the truth holds that some parts of me, especially now that I think more and more on having children of my own, are bruised by this piece of my history. I remember having people ask me about my mother, and I've always been honest that I didn't know her.

"I'm so sorry," they would say.
"Why?" I would reply because, really, why? I have no memory of the woman who birthed me. I have my father's stories and a few photographs, but there is no emotional tug other than a faint resentment over there being nothing. And yet, I have some moments where that small resentment seems tantamount to coming upon a mountain in my path. Seemingly spiteful, these feelings rush to my forebrain and I have moments of almost na-na-na-na-na, and "I don't need you."

So, why, you may ask in return? I suppose it's because I know that this person is part of why I exist, as well as this person being a complete stranger to me. My father assures me that I would know her, but would I really? Would I notice her out of the crowd, even if she were walking past me?

Hence the topic of this poem (and remember! rough draft!):

Mother, may I
Touch—our hands, our eyes, our mouths?
Mother, may I
Hear—your voice, your laugh, your sorrow?
Mother, may I
Speak—of smiles, of hands to sooth?
May I remember
Solace—for troubled confessions? —Mother?
May I bridge your
Silence—for a chance to touch, to hear, to—
Mother, may I
Tell—of you, to you, with you—
    As more than a figment
    Created—from questions posed to a mirror?
A mirror where
“All reverses save for time.”
So I, a mother:
Child—come touch our hands, our mouths—
Listen to my
Voice—and laugh with me—for we
Will speak of recalled
Memories—a series of moments built
Together—Mother and Child.