I have this sudden urge
To chop off my ebony curls.
They remind me too much
Of my mother.
Trying to visit her
A week after I left in tears
And she goes rigid when she sees how I am:
Composed, hard,
Bitter.
I don't think she thought of that when she named me.
I ask her how she is,
And I'm genuinely worried
But she shies away and stares through distrusting eyes,
What did I ever do
Do make my mother so afraid?
I smile warmly
And offer to draw her a picture.
She reluctantly nods.
Secretly bursting with pleasure,
I take out my paints
And begin.
(Disaster.)
I finish and turn it to my mother
So she can see
And I hear a soft gasp of surprise.
It is only then that I realize what I've drawn.
Empty, icy, desolate plains
Somewhat like Ecl, but not.
I look at it sadly and begin to apologize,
But she cuts me off
With the words, "Get out"
In a whisper-soft voice that scares me.
I leave.