a visit / lizzie borden

my mother.

A Visit / Lizzie Borden

When the door slams shut, I exhale.

There are ghostly shadows screaming on the walls,

Invisible bruises on my arms and chest,

And the phantom of a chair knocked over

From visions of a visit just like this one

That might have ended very differently.

My teeth ache from where I clenched them together

Not unlike the ache in my heart,

Bleeding from a wish of comfort, like water, I need it,

But there is none to be found in this place.

Only faint stains from where it might have been

Before something thirstier got to it first.

I trace my fingertips along the windowsill 

And I watch you leave like I think you’re someone else.

Here, I’m the painting on the wall,

The markings of the owl butterfly,

And, this time, I do not poke through the gaps in the screen,

Nor root around in the frozen air of the wind,

As I have learned I will only find more of the same.

Calculated, I permit my chest to rise and fall like it’s supposed to

And I pretend I’m not ruminating,

Not grinding the stone into dust, not ceasing,

Even when blood is drawn, continuing,

Scratching open the surface of my memory

To expose the marked interior, pining for recognition.

I flip over what you said in my head like a coin,

Heads, she loves me, Tails, she loves me not.

I wonder why I play your games and don your ribbons.

Your words slice the Achilles heel

And I kneel at your feet to beg for mercy

Until you kick me when I’m down

And I am forced to crawl away.

You say you want all that glitters,

But refuse the taste of gold I bring.

You say you crafted me into all I am

But blame my collapse on unsteady ground.

The flower must wilt, the clay must crumble,

The flame must burn out, don’t you see?

I stitch myself up just like you taught me,

And I see it in the pull-through.

It makes me wonder if you remember what it was like

To make simple mistakes, to have room to grow.

And, Lizzie, did you ever think your Mother was a goddess, too?

Did she ever cry in front of you?

Did you picture her in striped dresses at her birthday parties?

Or envision her as a writer? As someone who was a girl once, too?

Oh, Lizzie, can a mother ever love in any way

That does not leave bite marks? Or tattoo-spill-scars?

Maybe you were thinking of it when you swung.

Or maybe you were thinking of every scream,

Every blow, every Sunday morning, every tear, every nightmare,

Every crushed dream, every judgement from the hallway,

And maybe I understand, Lizzie.

I’m haunted by more than just old memories.

I watch you leave now like I’m expecting you to change your mind,

Like you’ll transform into that goddess and float ethereally up to me

And envelope me in healing light and impossible warmth

And say, “I’m sorry,” and comb through my hair

But you won’t. And you don’t. Even though I’m sure you could have.

And I retire from the window,

Chilled by all that might have been.