I don’t know if my mama either recovered
from his love, his carelessness killed her former self.
Stripped her tender seventeen year old skin
clean from her limbs and her mama,
my grandma watched tsking her tongue.
History repeats itself my love,
and the danger of losing you hurt.
Like breathing in air on a cold morning
when the pain is relentless,
we have no choice but to carry on.
I listen to my mama cry and scream between
memories of a marriage which could have last.
And I cannot decide whether this is her
or an image caught between our expectations.
I plait her auburn hair which runs through my fingertips,
and I relalise that these are her hands.