Poem-a-Day

The mouth of the mother is the mouth of a wolf. We do not know what is wrong with her, her siblings said, your mother. She has always been that way, as though that way was specific, identifiable, understood among all creatures. She has always been full of fear, petulance, and violence, often traveling from pasture to pasture at night, lamenting her state of being with dolorous howls, her throat full of rasping teeth and starlings. She is a great reaver and spewer of blood, they said, but also flees when met with the slightest resistance, and then hunches into a shivering lump to play martyr. She birthed and devoured a hundred babies before she had you. There was nothing we could do to stop her, either from the birthing or the devouring. Why she did not eat you we do not know, but agree the living was worse for you, that is, until you escaped. We did not think it possible. She carried you around by the scruff of your neck, slung you against rocks, pinned you under her forepaws and bathed you in her moldered breath until you screamed. She taught you nothing, neither to hunt nor to flee, and left you shivering upon the cold rock, scoured by winter sun and blasting winds. She was not a wolf. Not even close. She sent you to vacation Bible school. There you learned questionable crafts and the gentle terror of Jesus. We wanted to intervene, but ancient codes prevented it. When you bled, we looked away. When you ran into the sky, we cheered for you. She raged in your absence, slaughtering rabbits in the garden and digging endless tunnels into the earth. Now you have returned. Her mind is a ruin. She is a small child trapped on a merry-go-round. It would be a kindness to sing to her.