My therapist suggested I talk differently to my mother.
it occurred to me I could
tell the truth more often.
You know, like expressing my opinion
or daring to agree that she could
have done it better.
When I think
of speaking little truths
to my mother, it feels
as if all the careful statements I prepared
will give way to ravening hordes of words
bearing down to loot, rape and pillage.
Speaking out after 42 years of silence
has the sonic boom of spring ice breaking
or the quiet hiss of a sun-warmed rock.
But the rock and the ice floes
are in my throat
and the truth must work its way
past these obstructions.
What would my voice say,
gushing down like snow melt on unsuspecting rivers?
Alice Moore was raised in the Canadian Maritimes on ice, wind, fog and
books. Migrating south after college, she has settled in Maryland where
she lives on a small farm with her partner and assorted wild and domestic
creatures. She is a teacher, currently working with remedial reading
students, other teachers and horses. She has been writing poetry since she was six.
© 2006 Underground Voices