I am supposed to write poetically
about my mother today.
I refuse to do that
because I know
she would have not wanted me to say
the things I would write.
She’d call them a big windless blow,
useless on a dark starless night.
We never, ever, talked of love
or any of what that shit means
but rather she showed actions
and righteous fights are the only things
that ever accomplished a man’s dream.
Too many years’ dead now
I should say I miss her but
that would be a lie
for every time we look in the mirror
I see so much of her in I
that we both know without her
there’d be no me looking back at us.
© M Durfee