Rhiannon Thorne is a Fleetwood Mac baby from the North Bay, but took to calling herself Raquel during her abroad years in Madrid. She’s been published around and is co-editor with fellow poet-in-arms, Kate Hammerich, ofcahoodaloodaling. She may be reached at rhiannon_thorne@live.com.
Poem for a Mother
By Rhiannon Thorne
I’d follow you into the bathroom
on sticky feet,
press my little bird hands
into the back pockets of your jeans
while you were washing dishes
at the sink,
babbling on: Mommy, Mommy,
I love you.
Then there was the youth
who played Simon Says
to your aerobic routine.
I took jumps to your steps,
laughing as I tripped,
I wanted to go
where you went
I practiced to be
who you were.
The world split sideways
and I stumbled out
a teen traumatized
by the gory birth.
I’d’ve sworn you did it to me:
the red plague of my face,
the heartache,
the inexplicable serrating rage,
I beat at you as an extension
of self.
These years are quieter
and the miles between us ache
for your back pockets again,
to be in my adolescent womb,
that dumpy-brown carpeted house
with the over eager rose bushes,
all those rooms where I’d scream
Mommy! I love you!
This happens somehow. Most realize as they grow that their parents were human. If you have a chance grow close again. I miss my mother and would love one more day.