by Robin Byrd
we are our mothers
embodied and portioned
lost and aware
wisps of memory
captives to genographic fates
the black potted bread still soaking in butter on the stove’s eye
sizzling hot and blisteringly dangerous
“misery lives in the bones”
blood bleeds on dresses repurposed each generation for war
braided and rolled coifs frame faces too old to love hard again
ruint too young to know full abandon
“survival is a verb, is an action”
deep as conversation between matrilineal and patrilineal Xs
“we was runnin’ /
/ we was walkin’
we was birthin’ babies at a young age
/ an’ at a old age
we was locked up
/ inside ourselves
an’ in asylums /
for this can be the work of men
but he loved me /
/ he loved me
til’ his dyin’ day /
/ til’ my dyin’ day
we was young /
/ then we was old
then we was old /
i survived the asylum /
/ i did not survive my body reekin’ of alcohol
/ nor could i forget the huntin’ days
/ of wild meat simmerin’ or the smell
of afterbirth” /
give me cabbage and potatoes with the “e”
give me corned beef or meatloaf with gravy
and some of that bread
press my hair straight
don’t burn my ears or my kitchen
let me speak of shadows in dark rooms
and how much blood can be scrubbed from the soul or barren-ed womb
years of flesh falling like crabapples on the medicinal lawn so pretty you forget the apples need washing
unbefitting – this landscape
a lovely blanket to hide the oath breakers lair
life slips
expels itself
for grief is a murderer cloaked in silence
forgive me if i remember Dothan’s road as a desert route to hades
“we went north…east /
/ we went north…west
then we backtracked south…west /
we met in the middle in the southernmost northern city
we met in the middle /
/ we met in the middle
your son/my daughter /
/ your daughter/my son
we met in the middle
left nothing to chance”
the bones ache of revisiting crime scenes
sometimes i want to run when i need to walk
other times i just want to straddle this fence
teetering
invisible is not the end of a thing
written off is not the same as a black woman weathering
misery lives
in the bones
i am my mother
i am all my mothers
in ways too familiar to ignore
still scratching at scabs
still burying the dead
still weathering the pretty lawns
7/16/26
