i am the age my mother was when she had my brother
it's been on my mind
and i know it's been on hers too.
the last baby, born at home
my inspiration
my mother's gift to me
whose birth was foretold.
he was her chaos
and her pride and joy.
i am the age my mother was.
i see her in photographs
pale
with masses of dark hair
three little ones
entrusted to her care
even smaller than me.
i am so like her
with fear and frustration
and a yearning for
something more.
she loved mary and the saints
and ritual and nature
her second gift to me.
she never wanted me to be
both mother and father
like she had to be.
knowing that some essential part
would harden under the pressure.
and i always wanted to fit
under a man's arm
head on his shoulder.
i feel her fear and love
now that i am grown
in a different way.
as the door creaks open, my baby turned three
she says,
in the way that mothers who have suffered do
"you could be free, daughter
were you not always at the mercy
of the tides of your body."
without a hint of blame
"don't be like me," she says
"don't be like me."

- Jenny Wren