Kingdom

Mother, how is it, from your throne

in that great glittering ballroom inside your

palace of a hundred halls sprawled amidst

a thrilling tapestry of azalea and hydrangea,

delicious tulips' peacocked puckers

and all manner of gay and frill-frocked trees

that, for just one turn of the axis,

there is no room for me

at your elephantine inn? 

You know I would over-arch the sun and stars

to plant a kiss upon your cheek's soft down,

upon you who gave me life

and its maelstroms of sorrows yet joys

on you who in the fading photo

smiles beatifically at your fat-fisted firstborn

hoisted above a ringlet-haloed crown.

Oh when did the clash first snag your soul

having you gasp with bitterness

that I was not enough you, really, to be owned?

Why do you mantra-like prattle and groan

as though a my distant city were some slap or sin?

Did the problem begin some half century ago

when birthing me breach became one drop

in an avalanche of inevitable torrents of tears?

Mother, is it that I am not beautiful like you? --

that in your varnished world of sparkling surfaces

my unfortunate countenance cancels anything

beneath the skin that is virtuous, sweet, or true ?

Do not fret, Mother, I will not tether you

like some unctuous albatross

come this dark December;

no giant silver bird will slice

those frozen hues.

But on the morning of my undescent won't you

consider that ancient pearl-loined picture,

slip inside its cozy kingdom of just us two

And try...... to remember?

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008